UNIVERSITY  FARM 


Coffege  (Cfaeeice 


THE  LITTLE  BOOK  OF 
MODERN  VERSE 

A  SELECTION  FROM  THE  WORK 
OF  CONTEMPORANEOUS  AMERICAN  POETS 

EDITED   BY 

JESSIE  B.   RITTENHOUSE 

Editor  of  The  Little  Book  of  American  Poets 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON    NEW  YORK    CHICAGO    SAN  FRANCISCO 

OTfje  &ibersttc  $rcss  Cambnfcge 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,    I9I7»   BY  JESSIE   B.  RITTENHOUSE 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


tCftt  SUtersfte  &rt** 

CAMBRIDGE  .   MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U  .  S  .   A 


FOREWORD 

"THE  LITTLE  BOOK  OF  MODERN  VERSE/'  as  its  name 
implies,  is  not  a  formal  anthology.  The  pageant  of 
American  poetry  has  been  so  often  presented  that  no 
necessity  exists  for  another  exhaustive  review  of  the 
art.  Nearly  all  anthologies,  however,  stop  short  of  the 
present  group  of  poets,  or  represent  them  so  inade- 
quately that  only  those  in  close  touch  with  the  trend 
of  American  literature  know  what  the  poet  of  to-day 
is  contributing  to  it. 

It  is  strictly,  then,  as  a  reflection  of  our  own  period, 
to  show  what  is  being  done  by  the  successors  of  our 
earlier  poets,  what  new  interpretation  they  are  giving 
to  life,  what  new  beauty  they  have  apprehended,  what 
new  art  they  have  evolved,  that  this  little  book  has 
taken  form.  A  few  of  the  poets  included  have  been 
writing  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  were,  therefore, 
among  the  immediate  successors  of  the  New  England 
group,  but  many  have  done  their  work  within  the 
past  decade  and  the  volume  as  a  whole  represents  the 
twentieth-century  spirit. 

From  the  scheme  of  the  book,  that  of  a  small,  inti- 
mate collection,  representative  rather  than  exhaustive, 
it  has  been  impossible  to  include  all  of  the  poets  who 
would  naturally  be  included  in  a  more  ambitious 
anthology.  In  certain  instances,  also,  matters  of  copy- 
right have  deterred  me  from  including  those  whom  I 
had  originally  intended  to  represent,  but  with  isolated 
exceptions  the  little  book  covers  the  work  of  our  later 
poets  and  gives  a  hint  of  what  they  are  doing. 

I  have  attempted,  as  far  as  possible,  to  unify  the  col- 
lection by  arranging  the  poems  so  that  each  should  set 


vi  FOREWORD  

the  keynote  to  the  next,  or  at  least  bear  some  relation 
to  it  in  mood  or  theme.  While  it  is  impossible,  with  so 
varied  a  mass  of  material,  that  such  a  sequence  should 
be  exact,  and  in  one  or  two  instances  the  arrangement 
has  been  disturbed  by  the  late  addition  or  elimination 
of  poems,  the  idea  has  been  to  differentiate  the  little 
volume  from  the  typical  anthology  by  giving  it  a  unity 
impossible  to  a  larger  collection. 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE. 


CONTENTS 

Across  the  Fields  to  Anne.  Richard  Burton  ...  84 
After  a  Dolmetsch  Concert.  Arthur  Upson  .  .  .  181 

Agamede's  Song.  Arthur  Upson 32 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon.  Clinton  Scollard  .  .  99 
As  in  the  Midst  of  Battle  there  is  Room.  George  Santa- 

yana 153 

Ashes  in  the  Sea,  The.  George  Sterling  .  .  .  .170 
At  Gibraltar.  George  Edward  Woodberry  .  .  .  .11 
At  the  End  of  the  Day.  Richard  Hovey  .  .  .  .183 

Automobile,  The.  Percy  MacKaye 8 

Azrael.  Robert  Gilbert  Welsh 167 

Bacchus.  Frank  Dempster  Sherman 30 

Bag-Pipes  at  Sea.   Clinton  Scollard 49 

Ballade  of  my  Lady's  Beauty.  Joyce  Kilmer     ...    69 

Be  still.   Trumbull  Stickney 58 

Black  Sheep.  Richard  Burton 135 

Black  Vulture,  The.  George  Sterling  .  .  :  .  .  8 
Boy  from  Rome,  Da.  Thomas  Augustine  Daly  .  .  .108 
Buried  City,  The.  George  Sylvester  Viereck  ...  59 

Calverly's.  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  ....  160 
Candle  and  the  Flame,  The.  George  Sylvester  Viereck  131 

Candlemas.  Alice  Brown 25 

Caravan  from  China  comes,  A.   Richard  Le  Gallienne  .    98 

Chavez.  Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney 9 

Cloud,  The.  Josephine  Preston  Peabody     ....  127 

Comrades.  Richard  Hovey 159 

Comrades.  George  Edward  Woodberry 157 


viii  CONTENTS 


Daguerreotype,  The.  William  Vaughn  Moody  ...  41 

Departure.  Hermann  Hagedorn 172 

Dreamer,  The.    Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay    ....  97 

Dust  Dethroned,  The.  George  Sterling         ....  102 

Eagle  that  is  forgotten,  The.  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  .113 

Euchenor  Chorus.   Arthur  Upson          12 

Evensong.  Ridgely  Torrence 62 

Ex  Libris.  Arthur  Upson 153 

Exordium.  George  Cabot  Lodge 118 

Faun  in  Wall  Street,  A.  John  Myers  O'Hara    .      .      .125 

Fiat  Lux.  Lloyd  Mifflin 97 

Flight,  The.  Lloyd  Mifflin 168 

Four  Winds.  Sara  Teasdale 82 

"  Frost  To-Night."  Edith  M.  Thomas 193 

Frozen  Grail,  The.  Elsa  Barker 119 

Fugitives,  The.  Florence  Wilkinson 110 

Gloucester  Moors.  William  Vaughn  Moody       ...  4 

Golden  Pulse.  John  Myers  O'Hara 63 

Grandmither,  think  not  I  forget.   Willa  Sibert  Cather    .  75 

Grey  Rocks,  and  Greyer  Sea.   Charles  G.  D.  Roberts      .  74 

Grieve  not,  Ladies.  Anna  Hempstead  Branch    ...  70 

Happiest  Heart,  The.  John  Vance  Cheney  .  .  .122 
Harps  hung  up  in  Babylon.  Arthur  Colton  ...  66 
He  whom  a  Dream  hath  possessed.  Shaemas  0  Shed  .  14 
Heart's  Country,  The.  Florence  Wilkinson  ...  50 
Here  is  the  Place  where  Loveliness  keeps  House.  Madi- 
son Cawein 27 

Hora  Christi.  Alice  Brown 200 

House  and  the  Road,  The.  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .     86 

1  know  not  why.  Morris  Rosenfeld       .      .      ,       .      .198 
I  shall  not  care.  Sara  Teasdale 7)2 


CONTENTS  ix 


I  would  I  might  forget  that  I  am  I.  George  Santayana  .  177 
Inverted  Torch,  The.  Edith  M.  Thomas  .  .  .  .174 
Invisible  Bride,  The.  Edwin  Markham  .  .  .  .173 
Irish  Peasant  Song.  Louise  Imogen  Guiney  ...  80 

Joy  of  the  Hills,  The.  Edwin  Markham  .  .  .  .185 
Joyous-Gard.  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 51 

Kinchin junga.  Cale  Young  Rice 103 

Kings,  The.  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 15 

Leetla  Boy,  Da.  Thomas  Augustine  Daly  ....  31 
Lesser  Children,  The.  Ridgely  Torrence  .  .  .  .186 
Let  me  no  more  a  Mendicant.  Arthur  Colton  .  .  .  136 

Life.  John  Hall  Wheelock 35 

Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the  People.  Edwin  Markham  .  .137 
Little  Gray  Songs  from  St.  Joseph's.  Grace  Fallow 

Norton 78 

Live  blindly.  Trumbull  Stickney 67 

Lord  of  my  Heart's  Elation.  Bliss  Carman  ...  8 
Love  came  back  at  Fall  o'  Dew.  Lizette  Woodworth 

Reese 73 

Love  knocks  at  the  Door.  John  Hall  Wheelock  .  .130 
Love  Triumphant.  Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles  .  .  57 
Love's  Ritual.  Charles  Hanson  Towne  ....  74 
Love's  Springtide.  Frank  Dempster  Sherman  -  68 

Man  with  the  Hoe,  The.  Edwin  Markham        .      .      .116 

Martin.  Joyce  Kilmer 151 

Massa  ob  de  SheepfoP,  De.  Sarah  Pratt  McLean  Greene  134 
Master,  The.  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  ....  139 
May  is  building  her  House.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  .  .  26 
Memorial  Tablet,  A.  Florence  Wilkinson  .  .  .  .114 
Miniver  Cheevy.  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  .  .  182 

Mockery.   Louis  Untermeyer 16 

Mother.   Theresa  Helburn  ....  ,88 


CONTENTS 

Mystic,  The.   Witter  Bynner 126 

Mystic,  The.  Gale  Young  Rice 175 

New  Life,  The.  Witter  Bynner 151 

Nightingale  unheard,  The.  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .  52 
Night's  Mardi  Gras.  Edward  J.  Wheeler  .  .  .  .175 

Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,  An.  William  Vaughn  Moody  17 
Of  Joan's  Youth.  Louise  Imogen  Guiney  ....  72 
On  a  Fly-Leaf  of  Burns'  Songs.  Frederic  Lawrence 

Knowles 382 

On  a  Subway  Express.  Chester  Firkins  ....  7 
On  the  Building  of  Springfield.  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  141 

Once.   Trumbull  Stickney 129 

Only  of  thee  and  me.  Louis  Untermeyer  ....  56 
Only  Way,  The.  Louis  V.  Ledoux  .  .  .  .  .100 
Outer  Gate,  The.  Nora  May  French  .  170 

Parting  Guest,  A.  James  Whitcomb  Riley  ....  201 
Path  to  the  Woods,  The.  Madison  Cawein  .  .  .87 

Poet,  The.  Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney 154 

Poet's  Town,  The.  John  G.  Neihardt 143 

Prince,  The.  Josephine  Dodge  Daskam         ....     81 

Quiet  Singer,  The.  Charles  Hanson  Tovme        .      .      .179 

Recessional,  The.  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts      .      .      .      .196 

Renascence.  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 89 

Rhyme  of  Death's  Inn,  A.  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  .  169 
Ride  to  the  Lady,  The.  Helen  Gray  Cone  ....  60 

Rival,  The.  James  Whitcomb  Riley 169 

Rosary,  The.  Robert  Cameron  Rogers 129 

Sappho.  Sara  Teasdale 64 

Scum  o'  the  Earth.  Robert  Haven  Schauffler  .  .  .105 
Sea  Gypsy,  The.  Richard  Hovey 11 


CONTENTS 


Sea-Lands,  The.   Orrick  Johns 48 

Secret,  The.  George  Edward  Woodberry       ....    51 

Sentence.  Witter  Bynner 157 

Sic  Vita.  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 84 

Sometimes.    Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 89 

Somewhere.  John  Vance  Cheney 193 

Song.  Florence  Earle  Coates 37 

Song.   Florence  Earle  Coates 128 

Song.   Richard  Le  Gallienne 173 

Song  in  Spring,  A.    Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 26 

Song  is  so  old.  Hermann  Hagedorn 36 

Song  of  the  Unsuccessful,  The.  Richard  Burton  .  .111 
Songs  for  my  Mother.  Anna  Hempstead  Branch  .  .  38 

Souls.  Fannie  Stearns  Davis 96 

Stains.    Theodosia  Garrison 133 

Tears.  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 48 

Tears  of  Harlequin,  The.  Theodosia  Garrison  ...  58 
That  Day  you  came.  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  ...  36 
There's  Rosemary.  Olive  Tilford  Dargan  ....  73 
They  went  forth  to  Battle  but  they  always  fell.  Shaemas 

0  Sheet 112 

Thought  of  her,  The.  Richard  Hovey  .  .  .  .128 

To  a  New  York  Shop-Girl  dressed  for  Sunday.  Anna 

Hempstead  Branch 122 

To  William  Sharp.  Clinton  Scollard 178 

To-Day.  Helen  Gray  Cone 116 

Trumbull  Stickney.  George  Cabot  Lodge  ....  156 
Tryste  Noel.  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 199 

Unconquered  Air,  The.  Florence  Earle  Coates    .       .       .121 

Under  Arcturus.  Madison  Cawein 194 

Unreturning,  The.  Bliss  Carman 25 

Uriel.  Percy  MacKaye 161 

Vagabond  Song,  A.  Bliss  Carman 192 


xii  CONTENTS 


Wanderers.  George  Sylvester  Viereck 68 

Water  Fantasy.  Fannie  Stearns  Davis 28 

We  needs  must  be  divided  in  the  Tomb.  George  Santa- 

yana 172 

West-Country  Lover,  A.  Alice  Brown  ....  82 
When  I  am  dead  and  Sister  to  the  Dust.  Elsa  Barker  .  77 
When  I  have  gone  Weird  Ways.  John  G.  Neiha  it .  .  155 
When  the  Wind  is  low.  Cale  Young  Rice  .  e  .56 

Why.  Bliss  Carman ,       .     32 

Wife  from  Fairyland,  The.  Richard  Le  Gallicnnc     ,       .     33 

Winter  Ride,  A.  Amy  Lowell 83 

Winter  Sleep.  Edith  M.  Thomas 198 

Witchery.  Frank  Dempster  Sherman     .       .       .       o      ,     63 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

THANKS  are  due  to  the  following  publishers  for  per- 
mission to  include  selections  from  the  volumes  enumer- 
ated below:  — 

To  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  for  selections  from 
"Poems  and  Poetic  Dramas,"  by  William  Vaughn  Moody; 
"Happy  Ending,"  by  Louise  Imogen  Guiney;  "Uriel,  and 
Other  Poems,"  by  Percy  MacKaye;  "A  Troop  of  the 
Guard,"  by  Hermann  Hagedorn;  "Poems  and  Poetic 
Dramas,"  by  George  Cabot  Lodge;  "Little  Gray  Songs  from 
St.  Joseph's,"  by  Grace  Fallow  Norton;  "Poems  and  Poetic 
Dramas,"  by  Trumbull  Stickney;  "Scum  o'  the  Earth,"  by 
Robert  Haven  Schauffler;  "The  Inverted  Torch,"  by  Edith 
M.  Thomas;  "The  Ride  to  the  Lady,  and  Other  Poems,"  and 
"Oberon  and  Puck,"  by  Helen  Gray  Cone;  "The  Singing 
Man,"  and  "The  Singing  Leaves,"  by  Josephine  Preston 
Peabody;  "The  Shoes  that  Danced,  and. Other  Poems,"  by 
Anna  Hempstead  Branch;  "The  Unconquered  Air,"  "Lyrics 
of  Life,"  and  "Poems,"  by  Florence  Earle  Coates;  "Lyrics  of 
Joy,"  by  Frank  Dempster  Sherman;  "Poems,"  by  John 
Vance  Cheney;  "A  Quiet  Road,"  by  Lizette  Woodworth 
Reese;  "A  Dome  of  Many-Coloured  Glass,"  by  Amy 
Lowell;  and  for  the  following  poems  from  the  Atlantic 
Monthly:  "On  a  Subway  Express,"  by  Chester  Firkins; 
"Evensong,"  and  "The  Lesser  Children,"  by  Ridgely  Tor- 
rence. 

To  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  selections  from  "The 
Town  down  the  River,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  "A 
Winter  Swallow,"  by  Edith  M.  Thomas;  "Poems,"  by 
Josephine  Dodge  Daskam;  and  from  Scribner's  Magazine: 
"A  Memorial  Tablet,"  by  Florence  Wilkinson,  and  "Com* 
rades,"  by  George  Edward  Woodberry. 


xiv  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  for  selections  from 
"The  Man  with  the  Hoe,  and  Other  Poems,"  and  "Lincoln, 
and  Other  Poems,"  by  Edwin  Markham;  "The  Far  Country," 
by  Florence  Wilkinson;  "Many  Gods,"  and  "Far  Quests,"  by 
Cale  Young  Rice;  and  "A  Summer  of  Love,"  by  Joyce 
Kilmer. 

To  Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Co.  for  selections  from  "  Mes- 
sage and  Melody,"  "Lyrics  of  Brotherhood,"  and  "Dumb  in 
June,"  by  Richard  Burton. 

To  Messrs.  Dana  Estes  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "Love 
Triumphant,"  and  "On  Life's  Stairway,"  by  Frederic 
Lawrence  Knowles. 

To  Messrs.  Duffield  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "The  Frozen 
Grail,  and  Other  Poems,"  and  "The  Book  of  Love,"  by  Elsa 
Barker;  "Poems,"  by  George  Santayana;  and  "Along  the 
Trail,"  by  Richard  Hovey. 

To  Messrs.  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "Poems: 
New  Complete  Edition,"  by  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  copy- 
right, 1903,  and  "The  Green  Book  of  the  Bards,"  by  Bliss 
Carman,  copyright,  1903. 

To  A.  M.  Robertson  for  selections  from  "A  Wine  of  Wiz- 
ardry," and  "The  House  of  Orchids,"  by  George  Sterling, 
and  "Poems,"  by  Nora  May  French. 

To  S.  S.  McClure  Co.  for  the  use  of  the  poem  "There's 
Rosemary,"  by  Olive  Tilford  Dargan,  published  in  McC lures 
Magazine. 

To  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Co.  for  selections  from 
"Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  "More  Songs  from  Vagabondia," 
and  "Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  by  Bliss  Carman  and 
Richard  Hovey;  "An  Ode  to  Harvard,  and  Other  Poems,"  by 
Witter  Bynner;  and  "The  Poet,  the  Fool,  and  the  Fairies," 
by  Madison  Cawein. 

To  The  John  Lane  Co.  for  selections  from  "New  Poems," 
and  "English  Poems,"  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  and  "Car- 
mina,"  by  Thomas  Augustine  Daly. 

To  The  Century  Co.  for  the  use  of  the  poems  "  When  I  have 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


gone  Weird  Ways,"  by  JohnG.  Neihardt,  and  "Chavez,"  bj 
Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney. 

To  Thomas  B.  Mosher  for  selections  from  "A  Wayside 
Lute,"  by  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  selections  from 
"Helen  of  Troy,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Sara  Teasdale,  and 
"Poems,"  by  Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 

To  Messrs.  Moffat,  Yard  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "The 
Candle  and  the  Flame,"  by  George  Sylvester  Viereck. 

To  Messrs.  Harper  &  Bros,  for  the  use  of  the  poems, 
"Azrael,"  by  Robert  Gilbert  Welsh;  "Frost  To-night,"  by 
Edith  M.  Thomas;  "Mother,"  by  Theresa  Helburn;  and 
"  May  is  building  her  House,"  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

To  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company  for  the  use  of  the  follow- 
ing poems  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley:  "The  Rival,"  from 
"Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks,"  copyrighted  in  1892; 
"The  Parting  Guest"  from  "Morning,"  copyrighted  in 
1907. 

To  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  selections  from  "A  Quiet 
Singer,"  and  "Youth,"  by  Charles  Hanson  Towne;  "The  Joy 
o'  Life,"  by  Theodosia  Garrison;  "The  Stranger  at  the  Gate," 
by  John  G.  Neihardt;  for  the  use  of  "The  Sea-Lands,"  by 
Orrick  Johns,  and  "Sentence,"  by  Witter  Bynner,  published 
in  the  Forum;  and  for  "Renascence,"  by  Edna  St.  Vin- 
cent Millay,  and  "He  whom  a  Dream  hath  possessed,"  by 
Shaemas  O  Sheel,  published  in  the  Lyric  Year. 

To  The  Oxford  University  Press  for  selections  from 
"Sonnets,"  by  Lloyd  Mifflin. 

To  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "Harps 
hung  up  in  Babylon,"  by  Arthur  Colton. 

To  The  Macmillan  Co.  for  the  use  of  selections  from  the 
"Collected  Poems  of  George  E.  \Voodberry";  and  from 
"Myself  and  I,"  by  Fannie  Stearns  Davis. 

To  George  William  Browning  for  the  use  of  poems  by 
Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.,  and  Clinton  Scollard. 

To  Messrs.  Sherman,  French  &  Co.  for  selections  from 


xvi  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

"First  Love,"  by  Louis  Untermeyer,  and  "The  Beloved 
Adventure,"  by  John  Hall  Wheelock. 

To  the  American  Magazine  for  the  use  of  the  poem  "On 
the  Building  of  Springfield,"  by  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay. 

To  the  Smart  Set  for  the  use  of  the  sonnet,  "  A  Faun  in 
Wall  Street,"  by  John  Myers  O'Hara. 

To  Miss  Harriet  Monroe,  editor  of  Poetry,  for  the  use  of 
"The  Mystic,"  by  Witter  Bynner. 

To  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  editor  of  the  Poetry 
Journal,  for  the  use  of  "The  Only  Way,"  by  Louis  V. 
Ledoux. 

To  Messrs.  John  W.  Luce  &  Co.  for  selections  from  "The 
House  of  Falling  Leaves,"  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite. 

To  the  editors  of  the  Outlook  for  permission  to  reprint 
"Night's  Mardi  Gras."  by  Edward  J.  Wheeler. 

Sincere  thanks  are  due  also  to  my  friend  Thomas  S. 
Jones,  Jr.,  who,  during  my  absence  in  Europe,  has 
kindly  taken  charge  of  all  details  incident  to  putting 
"The  Little  Book  of  Modern  Verse"  through  the 
press. 


LORD  OF  MY  HEART'S  ELATION 

LORD  of  my  heart's  elation, 
Spirit  of  things  unseen, 
Be  thou  my  aspiration 
Consuming  and  serene! 

Bear  up,  bear  out,  bear  onward, 
This  mortal  soul  alone, 
To  selfhood  or  oblivion, 
Incredibly  thine  own,  — 

As  the  foamheads  are  loosened 
And  blown  along  the  sea, 
Or  sink  and  merge  forever 
In  that  which  bids  them  be. 

I,  too,  must  climb  in  wonder, 
Uplift  at  thy  command,  — 
Be  one  with  my  frail  fellows 
Beneath  the  wind's  strong  hand, 

A  fleet  and  shadowy  column 
Of  dust  or  mountain  rain, 
To  walk  the  earth  a  moment 
And  be  dissolved  again. 

Be  thou  my  exaltation 
Or  fortitude  of  mien, 
Lord  of  the  world's  elation, 
Thou  breath  of  things  unseen! 

Bliss  Carman. 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

A  MILE  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  woods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea, 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  flee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 

Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  grey  moths  sup 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 

Beach-peas  blossom  late. 

By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove 

Each  calling  to  his  mate. 

Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go, 

And  the  land-birds  all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo, 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags  grow 

Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 

This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 
We  landsmen  build  upon; 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 


From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace, 
And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 
Beneath  my  feet  I  feel 
Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip; 
With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upree! 
She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 
Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail, 

The  sun  is  her  masthead  light, 

She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 

Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright., 

Now  hid,  now  looming  clear, 

On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 

The  star  fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  vrer, 

But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 

As  if  her  port  she  knew. 


God,  dear  God!   Does  she  know  her 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out? 

I  watohed  when  her  captains  passed: 

She  were  better  captain  less. 

Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast, 

And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caugh- 
Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold,  — 
Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 
And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 
Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see; 
But  they  said,  "Thou  art  not  of  us!" 


6 GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 

And  cried,  "Give  help!"   But  they  said,  "Let  be; 

Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-raaid, 

The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes  through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 

To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 

With  its  swelter  and  its  sin ! 

Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet, 

And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat? 

And  when  will  his  wage  come  in? 

Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks, 

Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 

Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 

Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 

There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 

There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 

Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend, 

And  hearts  to  take  and  keep  to  the  end,  — 

O  little  sails,  make  haste! 

But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 

What  harbor  town  for  thee? 

What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 

Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see? 

Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 

Stand  singing  brotherly? 

Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 

Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 

While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men 


ON   A   SUBWAY   EXPRESS 

Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen, 
And  nothing  to  say  or  do? 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 


ON  A  SUBWAY  EXPRESS 

I,  WHO  have  lost  the  stars,  the  sod, 
For  chilling  pave  and  cheerless  light, 

Have  made  my  meeting-place  with  God 
A  new  and  nether  Night  — 

Have  found  a  fane  where  thunder  fills 
Loud  caverns,  tremulous;  —  and  these 

Atone  me  for  my  reverend  hills 
And  moonlit  silences. 

A  figment  in  the  crowded  dark, 
Where  men  sit  muted  by  the  roar, 

I  ride  upon  the  whirring  Spark 
Beneath  the  city's  floor. 

In  this  dim  firmament,  the  stars 
Whirl  by  in  blazing  files  and  tiers; 

Kin  meteors  graze  our  flying  bars, 
Amid  the  spinning  spheres. 

Speed!  speed!  until  the  quivering  rails 
Flash  silver  where  the  head-light  gleams, 

As  when  on  lakes  the  Moon  impales 
The  waves  upon  its  beams. 

Life  throbs  about  me,  yet  I  stand 
Outgazing  on  majestic  Power; 


THE   BLACK   VULTURE 


Death  rides  with  me,  on  either  hand, 
In  my  communion  hour. 

You  that  'neath  country  skies  can  pray, 
Scoff  not  at  me  —  the  city  clod ;  — 

My  only  respite  of  the  Day 
Is  this  wild  ride  —  with  God. 

Chester  Firkins. 


THE  AUTOMOBILE 

FLUID  the  world  flowed  under  us:  the  hills 
Billow  on  billow  of  umbrageous  green 
Heaved  us,  aghast,  to  fresh  horizons,  seen 

One  rapturous  instant,  blind  with  flash  of  rills 

And  silver-rising  storms  and  dewy  stills 

Of  dripping  boulders,  till  the  dim  ravine 
Drowned  us  again  in  leafage,  whose  serene 

Coverts  grew  loud  with  our  tumultuous  wills. 

Then  all  of  Nature's  old  amazement  seemed 
Sudden  to  ask  us:  "Is  this  also  Man? 
This  plunging,  volant,  land-amphibian 

What  Plato  mused  and  Paracelsus  dreamed? 

Reply!"   And  piercing  us  with  ancient  scan, 

The  shrill,  primeval  hawk  gazed  down  —  and  screamed 

Percy 


THE  BLACK  VULTURE 

ALOOF  upon  the  day's  immeasured  dome, 

He  holds  unshared  the  silence  of  the  sky. 
Far  down  his  bleak,  relentless  eyes  descry 


CHAVEZ 


The  eagle's  empire  and  the  falcon's  home  — 
Far  down,  the  galleons  of  sunset  roam; 

His  hazards  on  the  sea  of  morning  lie; 

Serene,  he  hears  the  broken  tempest  sigh 
Where  cold  sierras  gleam  like  scattered  foam. 

And  least  of  all  he  holds  the  human  swarm  — 
Unwitting  now  that  envious  men  prepare 

To  make  their  dream  and  its  fulfillment  one, 
When,  poised  above  the  caldrons  of  the  storm, 
Their  hearts,  contemptuous  of  death,  shall  dare 
His  roads  between  the  thunder  and  the  sun. 

George  Sterling. 

CHAVEZ 

So  hath  he  fallen,  the  Endymion  of  the  air, 

And  so  lies  down  in  slumber  lapped  for  aye. 
Diana,  passing,  found  his  youth  too  fair, 
His  soul  too  fleet  and  willing  to  obey. 
She  swung  her  golden  moon  before  his  eyes  — 
Dreaming,  he  rose  to  follow  —  and   ran  —  and  was 
away. 

His  foot  was  winged  as  the  mounting  sun. 

Earth  he  disdained  —  the  dusty  ways  of  men 
Not  yet  had  learned.   His  spirit  longed  to  run 
With  the  bright  clouds,  his  brothers,  to  answer 

when 

The  airs  were  fleetest  and  could  give  him  hand 
Into  the  starry  fields  beyond  our  plodding  ken. 

All  wittingly  that  glorious  way  he  chose, 

And  loved  the  peril  when  it  was  most  bright. 


10  CHAVEZ 


He  tried  anew  the  long-forbidden  snows 

And  like  an  eagle  topped  the  dropping  height 
Of  Nagenhorn,  and  still  toward  Italy 
Past  peak  and  cliff  pressed  on,  in  glad,  unerring  flight, 

Oh,  when  the  bird  lies  low  with  golden  wing 

Bruised  past  healing  by  some  bitter  chance, 
Still  must  its  tireless  spirit  mount  and  sing 

Of  meadows  green  with  morning,  of  the  dance 
On  windy  trees,  the  darting  flight  away, 
And  of  that  last,  most  blue,  triumphant  downward 
glance. 

So  murmuring  of  the  snow:  "  The  snow,  and  more, 
0  God,  more  snow!"  on  that  last  field  he  lay. 

Despair  and  wonder  spent  their  passsionate  store 
In  his  great  heart,  through  heaven  gone  astray, 

And  early  lost.   Too  far  the  golden  moon 
Had  swung  upon  that  bright,  that  long,  untra versed  way. 

Now  to  lie  ended  on  the  murmuring  plain  — 
Ah,  this  for  his  bold  heart  was  not  the  loss, 
But  that  those  windy  fields  he  ne'er  again 

Might  try,  nor  fleet  and  shimmering  mountains 

cross, 

Unf  olio  wed,  by  a  path  none  other  knew: 
His  bitter  woe  had  here  its  deep  and  piteous  cause. 

Dear  toils  of  youth  unfinished!  And  songs  unwrit- 
ten, left 

By  young  and  passionate  hearts !  O  melodies  * 
Unheard,  whereof  we  ever  stand  bereft! 

Clear-singing  Schubert,  boyish  Keats — with  these 


AT  GIBRALTAR  11 

He  roams  henceforth,  one  with  the  starry  band, 

Still  paying  to  fairy  call  and  far  command 
His  spirit  heed,  still  winged  with  golden  prophecies* 
Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney. 


THE  SEA  GYPSY 

I  AM  fevered  with  the  sunset, 
I  am  fretful  with  the  bay, 
For  the  wander- thirst  is  on  me 
And  my  soul  is  in  Cathay. 

There  's  a  schooner  in  the  offing, 
With  her  topsails  shot  with  fire, 
And  my  heart  has  gone  aboard  her 
For  the  Islands  of  Desire. 

I  must  forth  again  to-morrow! 
With  the  sunset  I  must  be 
Hull  down  on  the  trail  of  rapture 
In  the  wonder  of  the  sea. 

Richard  Hovey. 


AT  GIBRALTAR 

I 

ENGLAND,  I  stand  on  thy  imperial  ground, 

Not  all  a  stranger;  as  thy  bugles  blow, 

I  feel  within  my  blood  old  battles  flow  — 

The  blood  whose  ancient  founts  in  thee  are  found* 

Still  surging  dark  against  the  Christian  bound 

Wide  Islam  presses;  weU  its  peoples  know 


IS  EUCHENOR  CHORUS 

Thy  heights  that  watch  them  wandering  below; 
I  think  how  Lucknow  heard  their  gathering  sound. 
I  turn,  and  meet  the  cruel,  turbaned  face. 
England,  't  is  sweet  to  be  so  much  thy  son ! 
I  feel  the  conqueror  in  my  blood  and  race; 
Last  night  Trafalgar  awed  me*  and  to-day 
Gibraltar  wakened;  hark,  thy  evening  gun 
Startles  the  desert  over  Africa! 

II 

Thou  art  the  rock  of  empire,  set  mid-seas 
Between  the  East  and  West,  that  God  has  built; 
Advance  thy  Roman  borders  where  thou  wilt, 
While  run  thy  armies  true  with  His  decrees. 
Law,  justice,  liberty  —  great  gifts  are  these; 
Watch  that  they  spread  where  English  blood  is  spilt, 
Lest,  mixed  and  sullied  with  his  country's  guilt, 
The  soldier's  life-stream  flow,,  and  Heaven  displease! 
Two  swords  there  are:  one  naked,  apt  to  smite, 
Thy  blade  of  war;  and,  battle-storied,  one 
Rejoices  in  the  sheath,  and  hides  from  light. 
American  I  am;  would  wars  were  done! 
Now  westward,  look,  my  country  bids  good-night  — 
Peace  to  the  world  from  ports  without  a  gun ! 

George  Edward  Woodberry. 


EUCHENOR  CHORUS 

(From  "The  City") 

OF  old  it  went  forth  to  Euchenor,  pronounced  of  hi3 

sire  — 
Reluctant,  impelled  by  the  god's  unescapable  fire  — 


EUCHENOR  CHORUS  13 

To  choose  for  his  doom  or  to  perish  at  home  of  disease 
Or  be  slain  of  his  foes,  among  men,  where  Troy  surges 
down  to  the  seas. 

Polyides,  the  soothsayer,  spake  it,  inflamed  by  the  god. 
Of  his  son  whom  the  fates  singled  out  did  he  bruit  it 

abroad ; 
And  Euchenor  went  down  to  the  ships  with  his  armor 

and  men 
And  straightway,  grown  dim  on  the  gulf,  passed  the 

isles  he  passed  never  again. 

Why  weep  ye,  O  women  of  Corinth?  The  doom  ye 
have  heard 

Is  it  strange  to  your  ears  that  ye  make  it  so  mourn- 
ful a  word? 

Is  he  who  so  fair  in  your  eyes  to  his  manhood  upgrew, 

Alone  in  his  doom  of  pale  death  —  are  of  mortals  the 
beaten  so  few? 

O  weep  not,  companions  and  lovers!  Turn  back  to 

your  joys: 
The  defeat  was  not  his  which  he  chose,  nor  the  victory 

Troy's. 
Him  a  conqueror,  beauteous  in  youth,  o'er  the  flood  his 

fleet  brought, 
And  the  swift  spear  of  Paris  that  slew  completed  the 

conquest  he  sought. 

Not  the  falling  proclaims  the  defeat,  but  the  place  c! 

the  fall;  ( 

And  the  fate  that  decrees  and  the  god  that  impels 

through  it  all 


14     WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED 

Regard  not  blind  mortals'  divisions  of  slayer  and  slain, 
But   invisible   glories   dispense   wide  over   the   war- 
gleaming  plain. 

Arthur  Upson. 


HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED 

HE  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more 

of  doubting, 
For  mist  and  the  blowing  of  winds  and  the  mouthing 

of  words  he  scorns; 
Not  the  sinuous  speech  of  schools  he  hears,  but  a 

knightly  shouting, 
And  never  comes  darkness  down,  yet  he  greeteth  a 

million  morns. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of 
roaming; 

All  roads  and  the  flowing  of  waves  and  the  speediest 
flight  he  knows, 

But  wherever  his  feet  are  set,  his  soul  is  forever  hom- 
ing, 

And  going,  he  comes,  and  coming  he  heareth  a  call 
and  goes. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of 

sorrow, 
At  death  and  the  dropping  of  leaves  and  the  fading  o( 

suns  he  smiles, 
For  a  dream  remembers  no  past  and  scorns  the  desire 

of  a  morrow,  , 

And  a  dream  in  a  sea  of  doom  sets  surely  the  ultimate 

isles. 


THE  KINGS  15 


He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  treads  the  impal- 
pable marches, 

From  the  dust  of  the  day's  long  road  he  leaps  to  a 
laughing  star, 

And  the  ruin  of  worlds  that  fall  he  views  from  eternal 
arches, 

And  rides  God's  battlefield  in  a  flashing  and  golden  car0 

Shaemas  0  Sheet. 


THE  KINGS 

A  MAN  said  unto  his  Angel: 
"My  spirits  are  fallen  low, 
And  I  cannot  carry  this  battle: 
O  brother!  where  might  I  go? 

"The  terrible  Kings  are  on  me 
With  spears  that  are  deadly  bright; 
Against  me  so  from  the  cradle 
Do  fate  and  my  fathers  fight." 

Then  said  to  the  man  his  Angel: 
"Thou  wavering,  witless  soul, 
Back  to  the  ranks!  What  matter 
To  win  or  to  lose  the  whole, 

"As  judged  by  the  little  judges 
Who  hearken  not  well,  nor  see? 
Not  thus,  by  the  outer  issue, 
The  Wise  shall  interpret  thee. 

"Thy  will  is  the  sovereign  measure 
And  only  events  of  things: 


16  MOCKERY 


The  puniest  heart,  defying, 

Were  stronger  than  all  these  Kings. 

**  Though  out  of  the  past  they  gather, 
Mind's  Doubt,  and  Bodily  Pain, 
And  pallid  Thirst  of  the  Spirit 
That  is  kin  to  the  other  twain, 

"And  Grief,  in  a  cloud  of  banners, 
And  ringletted  Vain  Desires, 
And  Vice,  with  the  spoils  upon  him 
Of  thee  and  thy  beaten  sires,  — 

"While  Kings  of  eternal  evil 
Yet  darken  the  hills  about, 
Thy  part  is  with  broken  sabre 
To  rise  on  the  last  redoubt; 

"To  fear  not  sensible  failure, 
Nor  covet  the  game  at  all, 
But  fighting,  fighting,  fighting, 
Die,  driven  against  the  wall." 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 

MOCKERY 

GOD,  I  return  to  You  on  April  days 

When  along  country  roads  You  walk  with  me, 
And  my  faith  blossoms  like  the  earliest  tree 

That  shames  the  bleak  world  with  its  yellow  sprays  • 

My  faith  revives,  when  through  a  rosy  haze 
The  clover-sprinkled  hills  smile  quietly, 
Young  winds  uplift  a  bird's  clean  ecstasy  .  .  . 

For  this,  0  God,  my  joyousness  and  praise! 


AN  ODE  VN   TIME  OF  HESITATION    17 

But  now  —  the  crowded  streets  and  choking  airs, 

The  squalid  people,  bruised  and  tossed  about;          » <\ 

These,  or  the  over-brilliant  thoroughfares,  JLr  \ 

The  too-loud  laughter  and  the  empty  shout, 

The  mirth-mad  city,  tragic  with  its  cares  .  .  . 

For  this,  O  God,  my  silence  —  and  my  doubt, 
Louis  Untermeyer. 


AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION 


BEFORE  the  solemn  bronze  Saint  Gaudens  made 

To  thrill  the  heedless  passer's  heart  with  awe, 

And  set  here  in  the  city's  talk  and  trade 

To  the  good  memory  of  Robert  Shaw, 

This  bright  March  morn  I  stand, 

And  hear  the  distant  spring  come  up  the  land; 

Knowing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  unheard 

Of  this  boy  soldier  and  his  Negro  band, 

For  all  their  gaze  is  fixed  so  stern  ahead, 

For  all  the  fatal  rhythm  of  their  tread. 

The  land  they  died  to  save  from  death  and  shame 

Trembles  and  waits,  hearing  the  spring's  great  name, 

And  by  her  pangs  these  resolute  ghosts  are  stirred. 

II 

Through  street  and  mall  the  tides  of  people  go 

Heedless;  the  trees  upon  the  Common  show 

No  hint  of  green ;  but  to  my  listening  heart 

The  still  earth  doth  impart 

Assurance  of  her  jubilant  emprise, 

And  it  is  clear  to  my  long-searching  eyas 


18    AN  ODE  IN  TIME   OF   HESITATION 

That  love  at  last  has  might  upon  the  ski.  s. 

The  ice  is  runneled  on  the  little  pond; 

A  telltale  patter  drips  from  off  the  trees; 

The  air  is  touched  with  Southland  spiceries, 

As  if  but  yesterday  it  tossed  the  frond 

Of  pendant  mosses  where  the  live-oaks  grow 

Beyond  Virginia  and  the  Carolines, 

Or  had  its  will  among  the  fruits  and  vines 

Of  aromatic  isles  asleep  beyond 

Florida  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

ill 

Soon  shall  the  Cape  Ann  children  shout  in  glee, 

Spying  the  arbutus,  spring's  dear  recluse; 

Hill  lads  at  dawn  shall  hearken  the  wild  goose 

Go  honking  northward  over  Tennessee; 

West  from  Oswego  to  Sault  Sainte-Marie, 

And  on  to  where  the  Pictured  Rocks  are  hung, 

And  yonder  where,  gigantic,  wilful,  young, 

Chicago  sitteth  at  the  northwest  gates, 

With  restless  violent  hands  and  casual  tongue 

Moulding  her  mighty  fates, 

The  Lakes  shall  robe  them  in  ethereal  sheen; 

And  like  a  larger  sea,  the  vital  green 

Of  springing  wheat  shall  vastly  be  outflung 

Over  Dakota  and  the  prairie  states. 

By  desert  people  immemorial 

On  Arizonan  mesas  shall  be  done 

Dim  rites  unto  the  thunder  and  the  sun; 

Nor  shall  the  primal  gods  lack  sacrifice 

More  splendid,  when  the  white  Sierras  call 

Unto  the  Rockies  straightway  to  arise 

And  dance  before  the  unveiled  ark  of  the  yeafc, 


AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION   19 

Sounding  their  windy  cedars  as  for  shawms, 
Unrolling  rivers  clear 
For  flutter  of  broad  phylacteries; 
While  Shasta  signals  to  Alaskan  seas 
That  watch  old  sluggish  glaciers  downward  creep 
To  fling  their  icebergs  thundering  from  the  steep, 
And  Mariposa  through  the  purple  calms 
Gazes  at  far  Hawaii  crowned  with  palms 
Where  East  and  West  are  met,  — 
A  rich  seal  on  the  ocean's  bosom  set 
To  say  that  East  and  West  are  twain, 
With  different  loss  and  gain: 

The  Lord  hath  sundered  them;  let  them  be  sundered 
yet. 

IV 

Alas!  what  sounds  are  these  that  come 

Sullenly  over  the  Pacific  seas,  — 

Sounds  of  ignoble  battle,  striking  dumb 

The  season's  half -awakened  ecstasies? 

Must  I  be  humble,  then, 

Now  when  my  heart  hath  need  of  pride? 

Wild  love  falls  on  me  from  these  sculptured  men; 

By  loving  much  the  land  for  which  they  died 

I  would  be  justified. 

My  spirit  was  away  on  pinions  wide 

To  soothe  in  praise  of  her  its  passionate  mood 

And  ease  it  of  its  ache  of  gratitude. 

Too  sorely  heavy  is  the  debt  they  lay 

On  me  and  the  companions  of  my  day. 

I  would  remember  now 

My  country's  goodliness,  make  sweet  her  name. 

j\la.s!  what  shade  art  thou 


«0    AN  ODE  IN   TIME  OF  HESITATION 

Of  sorrow  or  of  blame 

Liftest  the  lyric  leafage  from  her  brow, 

And  pointest  a  slow  finger  at  her  shame? 


Lies!  lies!  It  cannot  be!  The  wars  we  wage 

Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 

By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage. 

We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 

The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to  cheat 

And  scramble  in  the  market-place  of  war; 

Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 

Here  is  her  witness:  this,  her  perfect  son, 

This  delicate  and  proud  New  England  soul 

Who  leads  despised  men,  with  just-unshackled  feet* 

Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory  meet, 

To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is  done, 

That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit-whole. 

VI 

Crouched  in  the  sea-fog  on  the  moaning  sand 
All  night  he  lay,  speaking  some  simple  word 
From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that  heard, 
Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 
And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay 
Till  each  dark  face  shone  mystical  and  grand 
Against  the  breaking  day; 
And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast  away 
Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice  crystal-fine, 
Fulfilled  of  the  divine 

Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring-finger 
stirred. 


AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION    21 

Then  upward,  where  the  shadowy  bastion  loomed 
Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea  light, 
Whence  now,  and  now,  infernal  flowerage  bloomed, 
Bloomed,    burst,    and    scattered    down    its    deadly 

seed,  — 

They  swept,  and  died  like  freemen  on  the  height, 
Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble  breed; 
And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 
By  hasty  and  contemptuous  hands  were  thrust 
Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him 
The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and  trust. 
Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 
In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 
To  flush  the  mountain  laurel  when  she  blows 
Sweet  by  the  Southern  sea, 

And  heart  with  crumbled  heart  climbs  in  the  rose:-" 
The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart  that  knew 
This  mountain  fortress  for  no  earthly  hold 
Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 
Of  spiritual  wrong, 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong, 
Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 
And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 
By  all  men  held  divine, 
Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most  holy  sign* 


O  bitter,  bitter  shade! 

Wilt  thou  not  put  the  scorn 

And  instant  tragic  question  from  thine  eye? 

Do  thy  dark  brows  yet  crave 

That  swift  and  angry  stave  -*- 

Unmeet  for  this  desirous  morn  — 


22    AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION 

That  I  have  striven,  striven  to  evade? 
Gazing  on  him,  must  I  not  deem  they  err 
Whose  careless  lips  in  street  and  shop  aver 
As  common  tidings,  deeds  to  make  his  cheek 
Flush  from  the  bronze,  and  his  dead  throat  to  speak? 
Surely  some  elder  singer  would  arise, 
Whose  harp  hath  leave  to  threaten  and  to  mourn 
Above  this  people  when  they  go  astray. 
Is  Whitman,  the  strong  spirit,  overworn? 
Has  Whittier  put  his  yearning  wrath  away? 
I  will  not  and  I  dare  not  yet  believe ! 
Though  furtively  the  sunlight  seems  to  grieve, 
And  the  spring-laden  breeze 
Out  of  the  gladdening  west  is  sinister 
With  sounds  of  nameless  battle  overseas; 
Though  when  we  turn  and  question  in  suspense 
If  these  things  be  indeed  after  these  ways, 
And  what  things  are  to  follow  after  these, 
Our  fluent  men  of  place  and  consequence 
Fumble  and  fill  their  mouths  with  hollow  phrase, 
Or  for  the  end-all  of  deep  arguments 
Intone  their  dull  commercial  liturgies  — 
I  dare  not  yet  believe!   My  ears  are  shut! 
I  will  not  hear  the  thin  satiric  praise 
And  muffled  laughter  of  our  enemies, 
Bidding  us  never  sheathe  our  valiant  sword 
Till  we  have  changed  our  birthright  for  a  gourd 
Of  wild  pulse  stolen  from  a  barbarian's  hut; 
Showing  how  wise  it  is  to  cast  away 
The  symbols  of  our  spiritual  sway, 
That  so  our  hands  with  better  ease 
May  wield  the  driver's  whip  and  grasp  the  jailer's 
keys. 


AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF   HESITATION    28 


VIII 

Was  it  for  this  our  fathers  kept  the  law? 

This  crown  shall  crown  their  struggle  and  their  ruth? 

Are  we  the  eagle  nation  Milton  saw 

Mewing  its  mighty  youth, 

Soon  to  possess  the  mountain  winds  of  truth, 

And  be  a  swift  familiar  of  the  sun 

Where  aye  before  God's  face  his  trumpets  run? 

Or  have  we  but  the  talons  and  the  maw, 

And  for  the  abject  likeness  of  our  heart 

Shall  some  less  lordly  bird  be  set  apart? 

Some  gross-billed  wader  where  the  swamps  are  fat? 

Some  gorger  in  the  sun?   Some  prowler  with  the  bat? 

IX 

Ah,  no! 

We  have  not  fallen  so. 

We  are  our  fathers'  sons:  let  those  who  lead  us  know! 

'T  was  only  yesterday  sick  Cuba's  cry 

Came  up   the  tropic  wind,  "Now   help  us,  for  we 

die!" 

Then  Alabama  heard, 
And  rising,  pale,  to  Maine  and  Idaho 
Shouted  a  burning  word. 

Proud  state  with  proud  impassioned  state  conferred, 
And  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand  sprang  forth, 
East,  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
Beautiful  armies.    Oh,  by  the  sweet  blood  and 
Shed  on  the  awful  hill  slope  at  San  Juan, 
By  the  unforgotten  names  of  eager  boys 
Who  might  have  tasted  girl's  love  and  been  stung 
With  the  old  mystic  joys 


24     AN  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION 

And  starry  griefs,  now  the  spring  nights  come  on, 
But  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  generous,  — 
We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us, 
Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of  stain ! 
Turn  not  their  new-world  victories  to  gain! 
One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from  the  bays 
Of  their  dear  praise, 

One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 
The  implacable  republic  will  require; 
With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of  noon, 
Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night, 
But  surely,  very  surely,  slow  or  SOOP. 
That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite. 
Tempt  not  our  weakness,  our  cupidity! 
For  save  we  let  the  island  men  go  free, 
Those  baffled  and  dislaureled  ghosts 
Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 
Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead. 
The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained  quite, 
Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 
With  ashes  of  the  hearth  shall  be  made  white 
Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent; 
Then  on  your  guiltier  head 
Shall  our  intolerable  self -disdain 
Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain; 
For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 
We  shall  discern  the  right 
And  do  it,  tardily.  —  O  ye  who  lead, 
Take  heed! 

Blindness  we  may  forgive,  but  baseness  we  will  smitG 
William  Vaughn  Moody. 


THE  UNRETURNING 


CANDLEMAS 

O  HEARKEN,  all  ye  little  weeds 

That  lie  beneath  the  snow, 
(So  low,  dear  hearts,  in  poverty  so  low!) 
The  sun  hath  risen  for  royal  deeds, 
A  valiant  wind  the  vanguard  leads; 
Now  quicken  ye,  lest  unborn  seeds 
Before  ye  rise  and  blow. 

O  furry  living  things,  adream 

On  winter's  drowsy  breast, 
(How  rest  ye  there,  how  softly,  safely  rest!) 
Arise  and  follow  where  a  gleam 
Of  wizard  gold  unbinds  the  stream, 
And  all  the  woodland  windings  seem 

With  sweet  expectance  blest. 

My  birds,  come  back  !  the  hollow  sky 

Is  weary  for  your  note. 

(Sweet-throat,  come  back!   O  liquid,  mellow  throat  i) 
Ere  May's  soft  minions  hereward  fly, 
Shame  on  ye,  laggards,  to  deny 
The  brooding  breast,  the  sun-bright  eye, 
The  tawny,  shining  coat! 

Alice  Brown. 


THE  UNRETURNING 

THE  old  eternal  spring  once  more 
Comes  back  the  sad  eternal  way, 

With  tender  rosy  light  before 
The  going-out  of  day. 


26    MAY  IS  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE 

The  great  white  moon  across  my  door 
A  shadow  in  the  twilight  stirs; 

But  now  forever  comes  no  more 
That  wondrous  look  of  Hers. 

Bliss  Carman. 


A  SONG  IN  SPRING 

O  LITTLE  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring, 

You  hold  my  winter  in  forgetfulness; 
Without  my  window  lilac  branches  swing, 
Within  my  gate  I  hear  a  robin  sing  — 

O  little  laughing  blooms  that  lift  and  bless! 

So  blow  the  breezes  in  a  soft  caress, 

Blowing  my  dreams  upon  a  swallow's  wing; 
O  little  merry  buds  in  dappled  dress, 
You  fill  my  heart  with  very  wantonness  — 
O  little  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring! 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


MAY  IS  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE 

MAY  is  building  her  house.  With  apple  blooms 

She  is  roofing  over  the  glimmering  rooms; 
Of  the  oak  and  the  beech  hath  she  builded  its  beams, 

And,  spinning  all  day  at  her  secret  looms, 
With  arras  of  leaves  each  wind-swayed  wall 
She  pictureth  over,  and  peopleth  it  all 

With  echoes  and  dreams, 

And  singing  of  streams. 


WHERE  LOVELINESS  KEEPS  HOUSE  27 

May  is  building  her  house.   Of  petal  and  blade, 
Of  the  roots  of  the  oak,  is  the  flooring  made, 

With  a  carpet  of  mosses  and  lichen  and  clover, 
Each  small  miracle  over  and  over, 
And  tender,  traveling  green  things  strayed. 

Her  windows,  the  morning  and  evening  star, 
And  her  rustling  doorways,  ever  ajar 

With  the  coming  and  going 

Of  fair  things  blowing, 
The  thresholds  of  the  four  winds  are. 

May  is  building  her  house.  From  the  dust  of  things 
She  is  making  the  songs  and  the  flowers  and  the  wings; 
From  October's  tossed  and  trodden  gold 
She  is  making  the  young  year  out  of  the  old; 
Yea:  out  of  winter's  flying  sleet 
She  is  making  all  the  summer  sweet, 
And  the  brown  leaves  spurned  of  November's 

feet 
She  is  changing  back  again  to  spring's. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

HERE  IS  THE  PLACE  WHERE  LOVELINESS 
KEEPS  HOUSE 

HERE  is  the  place  where  Loveliness  keeps  house, 

Between  the  river  and  the  wooded  hills, 

Within  a  valley  where  the  Springtime  spills 

Her  firstling  wind-flowers  under  blossoming  boughs: 

Where  Summer  sits  braiding  her  warm,  white  brows 

With  bramble-roses;  and  where  Autumn  fills 

Her  lap  with  asters;  and  old  Winter  frills 


28  WATER  FANTASY 

With  crimson  haw  and  hip  his  snowy  blouse. 
Here  you  may  meet  with  Beauty.   Here  she  sits 
Gazing  upon  the  moon,  or  all  the  day 
Tuning  a  wood-thrush  flute,  remote,  unseen: 
Or  when  the  storm  is  out,  't  is  she  who  flits 
From  rock  to  rock,  a  form  of  flying  spray, 
Shouting,  beneath  the  leaves'  tumultuous  green. 

Madison  Cawein. 

WATER  FANTASY 

O  BKOWN  brook,  0  blithe  brook,  what  will  you  say  to 

me 
If  I  take  off  my  heavy  shoon  and  wade  you  childishly? 

O  take  them  off,  and  come  to  me. 
You  shall  not  fall.   Step  merrily! 

But,  cool  brook,  but,  quick  brook,  and  what  if  I  should 

float 
White-bodied  in  your  pleasant  pool,  your  bubbles  at 

my  throat? 

If  you  are  but  a  mortal  maid, 

Then  I  shall  make  you  half  afraid. 

The  water  shall  be  dim  and  deep, 

And  silver  fish  shall  lunge  and  leap 

About  you,  coward  mortal  thing. 

But  if  you  come  desiring 

To  win  once  more  your  naiadhood, 

How  you  shall  laugh  and  find  me  good  — 

My  golden  surfaces,  my  glooms, 

My  secret  grottoes'  dripping  rooms. 


WATER   FANTASY 


My  depths  of  warm  wet  emerald, 
My  mosses  floating  fold  on  fold! 
And  where  I  take  the  rocky  leap 
Like  wild  white  water  shall  you  sweep; 
Like  wild  white  water  shall  you  cry, 
Trembling  and  turning  to  the  sky, 
While  all  the  thousand-fringed  trees 
Glimmer  and  glisten  through  the  breeze. 
I  bid  you  come!   Too  long,  too  long, 
You  have  forgot  my  undersong. 
And  this  perchance  you  never  knew: 
E'en  I,  the  brook,  have  need  of  you. 
My  naiads  faded  long  ago,  — 
My  little  nymphs,  that  to  and  fro 
Within  my  waters  sunnily 
Made  small  white  flames  of  tinkling  glee. 
I  have  been  lonesome,  lonesome;  yea, 
E'en  I,  the  brook,  until  this  day. 
Cast  off  your  shoon;  ah,  come  to  me, 
And  I  will  love  you  lingeringly! 

0  wild  brook,  O  wise  brook,  I  cannot  come,  alas! 

1  am  but  mortal  as  the  leaves  that  flicker,  float,  and 

pass. 
My  body  is  not  used  to  you;  my  breath  is  fluttering 

sore; 

You  clasp  me  round  too  icily.  Ah,  let  me  go  once  more! 
Would  God  I  were  a  naiad-thing  whereon  Pan's  music 

blew; 
But  woe  is  me!  you  pagan  brook,  I  cannot  stay  with 


you! 


Fannie  Stearns  Davis. 


SO  BACCHUS 


BACCHUS 

LISTEN  to  the  tawny  thief, 
Hid  beneath  the  waxen  leaf. 
Growling  at  his  fairy  host,' 
Bidding  her  with  angry  boast 
Fill  his  cup  with  wine  distilled 
From  the  dew  the  dawn  has  spilled: 
Stored  away  in  golden  casks 
Is  the  precious  draught  he  asks. 

Who,  —  who  makes  this  mimic  din 
In  this  mimic  meadow  inn» 
Sings  in  such  a  drowsy  note, 
Wears  a  golden -belted  coat; 
Loiters  in  the  dainty  room 
Of  this  tavern  of  perfume; 
Dares  to  linger  at  the  cup 
Till  the  yellow  sun  is  up? 

Bacchus  't  is,  come  back  again 
To  the  busy  haunts  of  men; 
Garlanded  and  gaily  dressed, 
Bands  of  gold  about  his  breast; 
Straying  from  his  paradise, 
Having  pinions  angel-wise,  — 
'T  is  the  honey-bee,  who  goes 
Reveling  within  a  rose! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman, 


DA  LEETLA  BOY  SI 


DA  LEETLA  BOY 

DA  spreeng  ees  com' !  but  oh,  da  joy 

Eet  ees  too  late  I 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 

He  no  could  wait. 

I  no  can  count  how  manny  week, 
How  manny  day,  dat  he  ees  seeck; 
How  manny  night  I  sect  an'  hold 
Da  leetla  hand  dat  was  so  cold. 
He  was  so  patience,  oh,  so  sweet! 
Eet  hurts  my  throat  for  theenk  of  eet° 
An'  all  he  evra  ask  ees  w'en 
Ees  gona  com'  da  spreeng  agen. 
Wan  day,  wan  brighta  sunny  day, 
He  see,  across  da  alleyway, 
Da  leetla  girl  dat's  livin'  dere 
Ees  raise  her  window  for  da  air, 
An'  put  outside  a  leetla  pot 
Of  —  w'at-you-call?  —  forgat-me-not. 
So  smalla  flower,  so  leetla  theeng ! 
But  steell  eet  mak'  hees  hearta  seeng: 
34Oh,  now,  at  las',  ees  com'  da  spreeng! 
Da  leetla  plant  ees  glad  for  know 
Da  sun  ees  com'  for  mak'  eet  grow. 
So,  too,  I  am  grow  warm  and  strong." 
So  lika  dat  he  seeng  hees  song. 
But,  Ah!  da  night  com'  down  an'  den 
Da  weenter  ees  sneak  back  agen, 
An'  een  da  alley  all  da  night 
Ees  fall  da  snow,  so  cold,  so  white, 
An'  cover  up  da  leetla  pot 


WHY 

Of  —  wa't-you-call?  —  forgat-me-not. 
All  night  da  leetla  hand  I  hold 
Ees  grow  so  cold,  so  cold,  so  cold! 

Da  spreeng  ees  com' ;  but  oh,  da  joy 

Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 

He  no  could  wait. 

Thomas  Augustine  Daly. 

AGAMEDE'S  SONG 

GROW,  grow,  thou  little  tree, 
His  body  at  the  roots  of  thee; 
Since  last  year's  loveliness  in  death 
The  living  beauty  nourisheth. 

Bloom,  bloom,  thou  little  tree, 
Thy  roots  around  the  heart  of  me; 
Thou  canst  not  blow  too  white  and  fair 
From  all  the  sweetness  hidden  there. 

Die,  die,  thou  little  tree, 
And  be  as  all  sweet  things  must  be; 
Deep  where  thy  petals  drift  I,  too, 
Would  rest  the  changing  seasons  through. 

Arthur  Upson. 

WHY 

FOR  a  name  unknown, 
Whose  fame  unblown 
Sleeps  in  the  hills 

For  ever  and  aye; 


THE  WIFE  FROM  FAIRYLAND       88 

For  her  who  hears 
The  stir  of  the  years 
Go  by  on  the  wind 
By  night  and  day; 

And  heeds  no  thing 
Of  the  needs  of  Spring, 
Of  Autumn's  wonder 
Or  Winter's  chill; 

For  one  who  sees 
The  great  sun  freeze, 
As  he  wanders  a-cold 
From  hill  to  hill; 

And  all  her  heart 
Is  a  woven  part 
Of  the  flurry  and  drift 
Of  whirling  snow; 

For  the  sake  of  two 
Sad  eyes  and  true, 
And  the  old,  old  love 
So  long  ago. 

Bliss  Carman* 


THE  WIFE  FROM  FAIRYLAND 

HER  talk  was  all  of  woodland  things, 

Of  little  lives  that  pass 
Away  in  one  green  afternoon, 

Deep  in  the  haunted  grass; 


S4       THE  WIFE  FROM   FAIRYLAND 

For  she  had  come  from  fairyland, 

The  morning  of  a  day 
When  the  world  that  still  was  April 

Was  turning  into  May. 

Green  leaves  and  silence  and  two  eyes  — 
'T  was  so  she  seemed  to  me, 

A  silver  shadow  of  the  woods, 
Whisper  and  mystery. 

I  looked  into  her  woodland  eyes, 
And  all  my  heart  was  hers, 

And  then  I  led  her  by  the  hand 
Home  up  my  marble  stairs; 

And  all  my  granite  and  my  gold 
Was  hers  for  her  green  eyes, 

And  all  my  sinful  heart  was  hers 
From  sunset  to  sunrise; 

I  gave  her  all  delight  and  ease 
That  God  had  given  to  me, 

I  listened  to  fulfill  her  dreams, 
Rapt  with  expectancy. 

But  all  I  gave,  and  all  I  did, 
Brought  but  a  weary  smile 

Of  gratitude  upon  her  face; 
As  though  a  little  while, 

She  loitered  in  magnificence 

Of  marble  and  of  gold. 
And  waited  to  be  home  again 

When  the  dull  tale  was  told. 


LIFE  S 

Sometimes,  in  the  chill  galleries, 

Unseen,  she  deemed,  unheard, 
I  found  her  dancing  like  a  leaf 

And  singing  like  a  bird. 

So  lone  a  thing  I  never  saw 

In  lonely  earth  or  sky, 
So  merry  and  so  sad  a  thing. 

One  sad,  one  laughing,  eye. 

There  came  a  day  when  on  her  heart 

A  wildwood  blossom  lay, 
And  the  world  that  still  was  April 

Was  turning  into  May. 

In  the  green  eyes  I  saw  a  smile 

That  turned  my  heart  to  stone: 
My  wife  that  came  from  fairyland 

No  longer  was  alone. 

For  there  had  come  a  little  hand 

To  show  the  green  way  home, 
Home  through  the  leaves,  home  through  the  dew, 

Home  through  the  greenwood  —  home. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne* 


LIFE 

LIFE  burns  us  up  like  fire, 
And  Song  goes  up  in  flame: 

The  radiant  body  smoulders 
To  the  ashes  whence  it  came. 


THAT  DAY  YOU  CAME         

Out  of  things  it  rises 

With  a  mouth  that  laughs  and  sings, 
Backward  it  fades  and  falters 

Into  the  char  of  things. 

Yet  soars  a  voice  above  it  — 

Love  is  holy  and  strong; 
The  best  of  us  forever 

Escapes  in  Love  and  Song. 

John  Hall  Wheelock. 


SONG  IS  SO  OLD 

SONG  is  so  old, 
Love  is  so  new  — 
Let  me  be  still 
And  kneel  to  you. 

Let  me  be  still 
And  breathe  no  word, 
Save  what  my  warm  blood 
Sings  unheard. 

Let  my  warm  blood 
Sing  low  of  you  — 
Song  is  so  fair, 
Love  is  so  new! 

Hermann  Hagedom* 


THAT  DAY  YOU  CAME 

SUCH  special  sweetness  was  about 
That  day  God  sent  you  here, 


SONG  87 


I  knew  the  lavender  was  out, 
And  it  was  mid  of  year. 

Their  common  way  the  great  winds  blew, 

The  ships  sailed  out  to  sea; 
Yet  ere  that  day  was  spent  I  knew 

Mine  own  had  come  to  me. 

As  after  song  some  snatch  of  tune 

Lurks  still  in  grass  or  bough, 
So,  somewhat  of  the  end  o'  June 

Lurks  in  each  weather  now. 

The  young  year  sets  the  buds  astir, 

The  old  year  strips  the  trees; 
But  ever  in  my  lavender 

I  hear  the  brawling  bees. 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese* 


SONG 

FOR  me  the  jasmine  buds  unfold 

And  silver  daisies  star  the  lea, 
The  crocus  hoards  the  sunset  gold, 

And  the  wild  rose  breathes  for  me. 
I  feel  the  sap  through  the  bough  returning, 

I  share  the  skylark's  transport  fine, 
I  know  the  fountain's  wayward  yearning, 

I  love,  and  the  world  is  mine! 

I  love,  and  thoughts  that  sometime  grieved9 
Still  well  remembered,  grieve  not  me; 


88  SONGS  FOR  MY  MOTHER 

From  all  that  darkened  and  deceived 

Upsoars  my  spirit  free. 
For  soft  the  hours  repeat  one  story, 

Sings  the  sea  one  strain  divine; 
My  clouds  arise  all  flushed  with  glory  —  ' 

I  love,  and  the  world  is  mine! 

Florence  Earle  Coates, 

MOTHER 

I  HAVE  praised  many  loved  ones  in  my  song, 

And  yet  I  stand 
Before  her  shrine,  to  whom  all  things  belong, 

With  empty  hand. 

Perhaps  the  ripening  future  holds  a  time  ' 

For  things  unsaid; 
Not  now;  men  do  not  celebrate  in  rhyme 

Their  daily  bread. 

Theresa  Helburn0 

SONGS  FOR  MY  MOTHER 

i 

HER  HANDS 

MY  mother's  hands  are  cool  and  fair, 

They  can  do  anything. 
Delicate  mercies  hide  them  there 

Like  flowers  in  the  spring. 

When  I  was  small  and  could  not  sleep, 
She  used  to  come  to  me, 


SONGS   FOR  MY  MOTHER 

And  with  my  cheek  upon  her  hand 
How  sure  my  rest  would  be. 

For  everything  she  ever  touched 

Of  beautiful  or  fine, 
Their  memories  living  in  her  hands 

Would  warm  that  sleep  of  mine. 

Her  hands  remember  how  they  played 
One  time  in  meadow  streams,  — 

And  all  the  flickering  song  and  shade 
Of  water  took  my  dreams. 

Swift  through  her  haunted  fingers  pass 
Memories  of  garden  things;  — 

I  dipped  my  face  in  flowers  and  grass 
And  sounds  of  hidden  wings. 

One  time  she  touched  the  cloud  that  kissed 
Brown  pastures  bleak  and  far;  — 

I  leaned  my  cheek  into  a  mist 
And  thought  I  was  a  star. 

All  this  was  very  long  ago 

And  I  am  grown;  but  yet 
The  hand  that  lured  my  slumber  so 

I  never  can  forget. 

For  still  when  drowsiness  comes  on 

It  seems  so  soft  and  cool, 
Shaped  happily  beneath  my  cheek, 

Hollow  and  beautiful. 


SONGS  FOR  MY  MOTHER 
ii 

HER  WORDS 

My  mother  has  the  prettiest  tricks 
Of  words  and  words  and  words. 

Her  talk  comes  out  as  smooth  and  sleek 
As  breasts  of  singing  birds. 

She  shapes  her  speech  all  silver  fine 

Because  she  loves  it  so. 
And  her  own  eyes  begin  to  shine 

To  hear  her  stories  grow. 

And  if  she  goes  to  make  a  call 

Or  out  to  take  a  walk 
We  leave  our  work  when  she  returns 

And  run  to  hear  her  talk. 

We  had  not  dreamed  these  things  were  so 

Of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Her  speech  is  as  a  thousand  eyes 

Through  which  we  see  the  earth, 

God  wove  a  web  of  loveliness, 
Of  clouds  and  stars  and  birds, 

But  made  not  any  thing  at  all 
So  beautiful  as  words. 

They  shine  around  our  simple  earth 

WTith  golden  shadowings, 
And  every  common  thing  they  touch 

Is  exquisite  with  wings. 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPE  41 

There 's  nothing  poor  and  nothing  small 

But  is  made  fair  with  them. 
They  are  the  hands  of  living  faith 

That  touch  the  garment's  hem. 

They  are  as  fair  as  bloom  or  air, 

They  shine  like  any  star, 
And  I  am  rich  who  learned  from  her 

How  beautiful  they  are. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch. 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPE 

THIS,  then,  is  she, 

My  mother  as  she  looked  at  seventeen, 

When  she  first  met  my  father.   Young  incredibly, 

Younger  than  spring,  without  the  faintest  trace 

Of  disappointment,  weariness,  or  tean 

Upon  the  childlike  earnestness  and  grace 

Of  the  waiting  face. 

Those  close-wound  ropes  of  pearl 

(Or  common  beads  made  precious  by  their  use) 

Seem  heavy  for  so  slight  a  throat  to  wear; 

But  the  low  bodice  leaves  the  shoulders  bare 

And  half  the  glad  swell  of  the  breast,  for  news 

That  now  the  woman  stirs  within  the  girl. 

And  yet, 

Even  so,  the  loops  and  globes 

Of  beaten  gold 

And  jet 

Hung,  in  the  stately  way  of  old, 

From  the  ears'  drooping  iobes 


42  THE   DAGUERREOTYPE 

On  festivals  and  Lord's-day  of  the  week, 
Show  all  too  matron-sober  for  the  cheek,  — 
Which,  now  I  look  again,  is  perfect  child, 
Or  no  —  or  no  —  't  is  girlhood's  very  self, 
Moulded  by  some  deep,  mischief-ridden  elf 
So  meek,  so  maiden  mild, 
But  startling  the  close  gazer  with  the  sense 
Of  passions  forest-shy  and  forest- wild, 
And  delicate  delirious  merriments. 

As  a  moth  beats  sidewise 

And  up  and  over,  and  tries 

To  skirt  the  irresistible  lure 

Of  the  flame  that  has  him  sure, 

My  spirit,  that  is  none  too  strong  to-day , 

Flutters  and  makes  delay,  — 

Pausing  to  wonder  on  the  perfect  lips, 

Lifting  to  muse  upon  the  low-drawn  hair 

And  each  hid  radiance  there, 

But  powerless  to  stem  the  tide-race  bright, 

The  vehement  peace  which  drifts  it  toward  the  light 

Where  soon  —  ah,  now,  with  cries 

Of  grief  and  giving-up  unto  its  gain 

It  shrinks  no  longer  nor  denies, 

But  dips 

Hurriedly  home  to  the  exquisite  heart  of  pain,  — 

And  all  is  well,  for  I  have  seen  them  plain, 

The  unforgettable,  the  unforgotten  eyes ! 

Across  the  blinding  gush  of  these  good  tears 

They  shine  as  in  the  sweet  and  heavy  years 

When  by  her  bed  and  chair 

We  children  gathered  jealously  to  share 

The  sunlit  aura  breathing  myrrh  and  thyme, 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  43 

Where  the  sore-stricken  body  made  a  clime 
Gentler  than  May  and  pleasanter  than  rhyme, 
flolier  and  more  mystical  than  prayer. 

God,  how  thy  ways  are  strange! 

That  this  should  be,  even  this, 

The  patient  head 

Which  suffered  years  ago  the  dreary  change! 

That  these  so  dewy  lips  should  be  the  same 

As  those  I  stooped  to  kiss 

And  heard  my  harrowing  half -spoken  name, 

A  little  ere  the  one  who  bowed  above  her, 

Our  father  and  her  very  constant  lover, 

Rose  stoical,  and  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

Then  I,  who  could  not  understand  or  share 

His  antique  nobleness, 

Being  unapt  to  bear 

The  insults  which  time  flings  us  for  our  proof,   - 

Fled  from  the  horrible  roof 

Into  the  alien  sunshine  merciless, 

The  shrill  satiric  fields  ghastly  with  day, 

Raging  to  front  God  in  his  pride  of  sway 

And  hurl  across  the  lifted  swords  of  fate 

That  ringed  Him  where  He  sat 

My  puny  gage  of  scorn  and  desolate  hate 

Which  somehow  should  undo  Him,  after  all! 

That  this  girl  face,  expectant,  virginal, 

Which  gazes  out  at  me 

Boon  as  a  sweetheart,  as  if  nothing  loth 

(Save  for  the  eyes,  with  other  presage  stored) 

To  pledge  me  troth, 

And  in  the  kingdom  where  the  heart  is  lord 

Take  sail  on  the  terrible  gladness  of  the  deep 


44  THE  DAGUERREOTYPE 

•WIH  .  •  ••     111,11    i.  ...•!—..-. ,  •. —  _     —nmm*     i        1 "  '  r~ 

Whose  winds  the  gray  Norns  keep,  — 
That  this  should  be  indeed 
The  flesh  which  caught  my  soul,  a  flying  seed, 
Out  of  the  to  and  fro 

Of  scattering  hands  where  the  seedsman  Mage, 
Stooping  from  star  to  star  and  age  to  age 
Sings  as  he  sows! 
That  underneath  this  breast 
Nine  moons  I  fed 
Deep  of  divine  unrest, 
While  over  and  over  in  the  dark  she  said, 
"Blessed!  but  not  as  happier  children  blessed"  — » 
That  this  should  be 
Even  she  .  .  . 

God,  how  with  time  and  change 
Thou  makest  thy  footsteps  strange! 
Ah,  now  I  know 

They  play  upon  me,  and  it  is  not  so. 
Why,  't  is  a  girl  I  never  saw  before, 
A  little  thing  to  flatter  and  make  weep, 
To  tease  until  her  heart  is  sore, 
Then  kiss  and  clear  the  score; 
A  gypsy  run-the-fields, 
A  little  liberal  daughter  of  the  earth, 
Good  for  what  hour  of  truancy  and  mirth 
The  careless  season  yields 

Hither-side  the  flood  of  the  year  and  yonder  of  the  neap; 
Then  thank  you,  thanks  again,  and  twenty  light  good- 
byes. — 

O  shrined  above  the  skies, 
Frown  not,  clear  brow, 
Darken  not,  holy  eyes! 
Thou  kncwest  well  I  know  that  it  is  thou 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  46 

Only  to  save  me  from  such  memories 
As  would  unman  me  quite, 
Here  in  this  web  of  strangeness  caught 
And  prey  to  troubled  thought 
Do  I  devise 

These  foolish  shifts  and  slight; 
Only  to  shield  me  from  the  afflicting  sense 
Of  some  waste  influence 

Which  from  this  morning  face  and  lustrous  hair 
Breathes  on  me  sudden  ruin  and  despair. 
In  any  other  guise, 

With  any  but  this  girlish  depth  of  gaze, 
Your  coming  had  not  so  unsealed  and  poured 
The  dusty  amphoras  where  I  had  stored 
The  drippings  of  the  winepress  of  my  day*. 
I  think  these  eyes  foresee, 
Now  in  their  unawakened  virgin  time, 
Their  mother's  pride  in  me, 
And  dream  even  now,  unconsciously, 
Upon  each  soaring  peak  and  sky-hung  lea 
You  pictured  I  should  climb. 
Broken  premonitions  come, 
Shapes,  gestures  visionary, 
Not  as  once  to  maiden  Mary 
The  manifest  angel  with  fresh  lilies  came 
Intelligibly  calling  her  by  name; 
But  vanishingly,  dumb, 
Thwarted  and  bright  and  wild, 
As  heralding  a  sin-defiled, 

Earth  encumbered,  blood-begotten,  passionate  man- 
child, 

Who  yet  should  be  a  trump  of  mighty  call 
Blown  in  the  gates  of  evil  kings 


46  THE   DAGUERREOTYPE 

To  make  them  fall; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  sword  of  flame  before 

The  soul's  inviolate  door 

To  beat  away  the  clang  of  hellish  wings; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  lyre 

Of  high  unquenchable  desire 

In  the  day  of  little  things.  — 

Look,  where  the  amphoras, 

The  yield  of  many  days, 

Trod  by  my  hot  soul  from  the  pulp  of  self, 

And  set  upon  the  shelf 

In  sullen  pride 

The  Vineyard-master's  tasting  to  abide  — 

O  mother  mine! 

Are  these  the  bringings-in,  the  doings  fine, 

Of  him  you  used  to  praise? 

Emptied  and  overthrown 

The  jars  lie  strewn. 

These,  for  their  flavor  duly  nursed, 

Drip  from  the  stopples  vinegar  accursed; 

These,  I  thought  honied  to  the  very  seal, 

Dry,  dry,  —  a  little  acid  meal, 

A  pinch  of  mouldy  dust, 

Sole  leavings  of  the  amber-mantling  must; 

These,  rude  to  look  upon, 

But  flasking  up  the  liquor  dearest  won, 

Through  sacred  hours  and  hard, 

With  watching  and  with  wrestlings  and  with  grief. 

Even  of  these,  of  these  in  chief, 

The  stale  breath  sickens  reeking  from  the  shard. 

Nothing  is  left.    Aye,  how  much  less  than  naughti 

What  shall  be  said  or  thought 

Of  the  slack  hours  and  waste  imaginings, 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  47 

The  cynic  rending  of  the  wings, 

Known  to  that  fro  ward,  that  un  reckoning  heart 

Whereof  this  brewage  was  the  precious  part, 

Treasured  and  set  away  with  furtive  boast? 

O  dear  and  cruel  ghost, 

Be  merciful,  be  just! 

See,  I  was  yours  and  I  am  in  the  dust. 

Then  look  not  so,  as  if  all  things  were  well! 

Take  your  eyes  from  me,  leave  me  to  my  shame, 

Or  else,  if  gaze  they  must, 

Steel  them  with  judgment,  darken  them  with  blame: 

But  by  the  ways  of  light  ineffable 

You  bade  me  go  and  I  have  faltered  from, 

By  the  low  waters  moaning  out  of  hell 

Whereto  my  feet  have  come, 

Lay  not  on  me  these  intolerable 

Looks  of  rejoicing  love,  of  pride,  of  happy  trust! 

Nothing  dismayed? 

By  all  I  say  and  all  I  hint  not  made 

Afraid? 

O  then,  stay  by  me!   Let 

These  eyes  afflict  me,  cleanse  me,  keep  me  yet, 

Brave  eyes  and  true! 

See  how  the  shrivelled  heart,  that  long  has  lain 

Dead  to  delight  and  pain, 

Stirs,  and  begins  again 

To  utter  pleasant  life,  as  if  it  knew 

The  wintry  days  were  through; 

As  if  in  its  awakening  boughs  it  heard 

The  quick,  sweet-spoken  bird. 

Strong  eyes  and  brave, 

Inexorable  to  save! 

William  Vaughn  Moody. 


THE  SEA-LANDS 


TEARS 

WHEN  I  consider  Life  and  its  few  years  — 

A  wisp  of  fog  betwixt  us  and  the  sun; 

A  call  to  battle,  and  the  battle  done 

Ere  the  last  echo  dies  within  our  ears; 

A  rose  choked  in  the  grass;  an  hour  of  fears; 

The  gusts  that  past  a  darkening  shore  do  beat; 

The  burst  of  music  down  an  unlistening  street,  — 

I  wonder  at  the  idleness  of  tears. 

Ye  old,  old  dead,  and  ye  of  yesternight, 

Chieftains,  and  bards,  and  keepers  of  the  sheep, 

By  every  cup  of  sorrow  that  you  had, 

Loose  me  from  tears,  and  make  me  see  aright 

How  each  hath  back  what  once  he  stayed  to  weep : 

Homer  his  sight,  David  his  little  lad ! 

Lizette  Woodworih  Reese. 


THE  SEA-LANDS 

WOULD  I  were  on  the  sea-lands, 
Where  winds  know  how  to  sting; 

And  in  the  rocks  at  midnight 
The  lost  long  murmurs  sing. 

Would  I  were  with  my  first  love 
To  hear  the  rush  and  roar 

Of  spume  below  the  doorstep 
And  winds  upon  the  door. 

My  first  love  was  a  fair  girl 
With  ways  forever  new; 


BAG-PIPES  AT  SEA  J9 

And  hair  a  sunlight  yellow, 
And  eyes  a  morning  blue. 

The  roses,  have  they  tarried 

Or  are  they  dun  and  frayed? 
If  we  had  stayed  together, 

Would  love,  indeed,  have  stayed? 

Ah,  years  are  filled  with  learning, 

And  days  are  leaves  of  change! 
And  I  have  met  so  many 

I  knew  .  .  .  and  found  them  strange. 

But  on  the  sea-lands  tumbled 

By  winds  that  sting  and  blind, 
The  nights  we  watched,  so  silent, 

Come  back,  come  back  to  mind.  . 

I  mind  about  my  first  love, 

And  hear  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  spume  below  the  doorstep 

And  winds  upon  the  door. 

Orrick  Johno, 


BAG-PIPES  AT  SEA 

ABOVE  the  shouting  of  the  gale, 

The  whipping  sheet,  the  dashing  spray, 

I  heard,  with  notes  of  joy  and  wail, 
A  piper  play. 

Along  the  dipping  deck  he  trod, 
The  dusk  about  his  shadowy  form; 


50  THE  HEART'S  COUNTRY 

He  seemed  like  some  strange  ancient  god 
Of  song  and  storm. 

He  gave  his  dim-seen  pipes  a  skirl 
And  war  went  down  the  darkling  air; 

Then  came  a  sudden  subtle  swirl, 
And  love  was  there. 

What  were  the  winds  that  flailed  and  flayed 
The  sea  to  him,  the  night  obscure? 

In  dreams  he  strayed  some  brackened  glade9 
Some  heathery  moor. 

And  if  he  saw  the  slanting  spars, 

And  if  he  watched  the  shifting  track, 

He  marked,  too,  the  eternal  stars 
Shine  through  the  wrack. 

And  so  amid  the  deep  sea  din, 
And  so  amid  the  wastes  of  foam, 

Afar  his  heart  was  happy  in 
His  highland  home! 

Clinton  Scollard, 


THE  HEART'S  COUNTRY 

HILL  people  turn  to  their  hills; 

Sea-folk  are  sick  for  the  sea: 
Thou  art  my  land  and  my  country, 

And  my  heart  calls  out  for  thee. 

The  bird  beats  his  wings  for  the  open» 
The  captive  burns  to  be  free; 


THE  SECRET  51 

But  I  —  I  cry  at  thy  window, 
For  thou  art  my  liberty. 

Florence  Wilkinson. 

JOYOUS-GARD 

WIND-WASHED  and  free,  full-swept  by  rain  and  wave* 
By  tang  of  surf  and  thunder  of  the  gale, 
Wild  be  the  ride  yet  safe  the  barque  will  sail 

And  past  the  plunging  seas  her  harbor  brave; 

Nor  care  have  I  that  storms  and  waters  rave, 
I  cannot  fear  since  you  can  never  fail  — 
Once  have  I  looked  upon  the  burning  grail, 

And  through  your  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  grave. 

I  know  at  last  —  the  strange,  sweet  mystery, 
The  nameless  joy  that  trembled  into  tears, 

The  hush  of  wings  when  you  were  at  my  side  — 
For  now  the  veil  is  rent  and  I  can  see, 
See  the  true  vision  of  the  future  years, 
As  in  your  face  the  love  of  Him  who  died! 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  JT, 

THE  SECRET 

NIGHTINGALES  warble  about  it, 

All  night  under  blossom  and  star; 
The  wild  swan  is  dying  without  it, 

And  the  eagle  crieth  afar: 
The  sun  he  doth  mount  but  to  find  it, 

Searching  the  green  earth  o'er; 
But  more  doth  a  man's  heart  mind  it, 

Oh,  more,  more,  more! 


52     THE  NIGHTINGALE  UNHEARD 

Over  the  gray  leagues  of  ocean 

The  infinite  yearneth  alone; 
The  forests  with  wandering  emotion 

The  thing  they  know  not  intone; 
Creation  arose  but  to  see  it, 

A  million  lamps  in  the  blue; 
But  a  lover  he  shall  be  it 

If  one  sweet  maid  is  true. 

George  Edward  Woodberry. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  UNHEARD 

YES,  Nightingale,  through  all  the  summer-time 

We  followed  on,  from  moon  to  golden  moon; 

From  where  Salerno  day-dreams  in  the  noon, 
And  the  far  rose  of  Psestum  once  did  climb. 

All  the  white  way  beside  the  girdling  blue, 
Through  sun-shrill  vines  and  campanile  chime, 

We  listened;  —  from  the  old  year  to  the  new. 
Brown  bird,  and  where  were  you? 

You,  that  Ravello  lured  not,  throned  on  high 

And  filled  with  singing  out  of  sun-burned  throats? 

Nor  yet  Minore  of  the  flame-sailed  boats; 
Nor  yet  —  of  all  bird-song  should  glorify  — 

Assisi,  Little  Portion  of  the  blest, 
Assisi,  in  the  bosom  of  the  sky, 

Where  God's  own  singer  thatched  his  sunward  nest- 
That  little,  heavenliest! 

And  north  and  north,  to  where  the  hedge-rows  are, 
That  beckon  with  white  looks  an  endless  way; 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  UNHEARD     53 

Where,  through  the  fair  wet  silverness  of  May, 
A  lamb  shines  out  as  sudden  as  a  star, 

Among  the  cloudy  sheep;  and  green,  and  pale, 
The  may-trees  reach  and  glimmer,  near  or  far, 

And  the  red  may-trees  wear  a  shining  veil. 
And  still,  no  nightingale! 

The  one  vain  longing,  —  through  all  journeyings, 
The  one:  in  every  hushed  and  hearkening  spot,  — 
All  the  soft-swarming  dark  where  you  were  not, 
Still  longed  for!  Yes,  for  sake  of  dreams  and  wings, 

And  wonders,  that  your  own  must  ever  make 
To  bower  you  close,  with  all  hearts'  treasurings; 
And  for  that  speech  toward  which  all  hearts  do 

ache; — 
Even  for  Music's  sake. 

But  most,  his  music  whose  beloved  name 

Forever  writ  in  water  of  bright  tears, 

Wins  to  one  grave-side  even  the  Roman  years, 
That  kindle  there  the  hallowed  April  flame 

Of  comfort-breathing  violets.   By  that  shrine 
Of  Youth,  Love,  Death,  forevermore  the  same, 

Violets  still !  —  When  falls,  to  leave  no  sign, 
The  arch  of  Constantine. 

Most  for  his  sake  we  dreamed.  Tho'  not  as  he, 
From  that  lone  spirit,  brimmed  with  human  woe- 
Your  song  once  shook  to  surging  overflow. 

How  was  it,  sovran  dweller  of  the  tree, 
His  cry,  still  throbbing  in  the  flooded  shell 

Of  silence  with  remembered  melody, 

Could  draw  from  you  no  answer  to  the  spell? 
—  O  Voice,  O  Philomel? 


54     THE  NIGHTINGALE   UNHEARD 

Long  time  we  wondered  (and  we  knew  not  why) :  — 
Nor  dream,  nor  prayer,  of  wayside  gladness  born, 
Nor  vineyards  waiting,  nor  reproachful  thorn, 

Nor  yet  the  nested  hill-towns  set  so  high 

All  the  white  way  beside  the  girdling  blue,  — 

Nor  olives,  gray  against  a  golden  sky, 

Could  serve  to  wake  that  rapturous  voice  of  you; 
But  the  wise  silence  knew. 

O  Nightingale  unheard !  —  Unheard  alone, 
Throughout  that  woven  music  of  the  days 
From  the  faint  sea-rim  to  the  market-place, 

And  ring  of  hammers  on  cathedral  stone! 
So  be  it,  better  so:  that  there  should  fail 

For  sun-filled  ones,  one  blessed  thing  unknown. 
To  them,  be  hid  forever,  —  and  all  hail ! 
Sing  never,  Nightingale. 

Sing,  for  the  others!  Sing;  to  some  pale  cheek 

Against  the  window,  like  a  starving  flower. 

Loose,  with  your  singing,  one  poor  pilgrim  hour 
Of  journey,  with  some  Heart's  Desire  to  seek. 

Loose,  with  your  singing,  captives  such  as  these 
In  misery  and  iron,  hearts  too  meek. 

For  voyage  —  voyage  over  dreamful  seas 
To  lost  Hesperides. 

Sing  not  for  free-men.  Ah,  but  sing  for  whom 
The  walls  shut  in;  and  even  as  eyes  that  fade, 
The  windows  take  no  heed  of  light  nor  shade,  — 

The  leaves  are  lost  in  mutterings  of  the  loom. 
Sing  near!   So  in  that  golden  overflowing 

They  may  forget  their  wasted  human  bloom; 


THE   NIGHTINGALE  UNHEARD     55 

Pay  the  devouring  days  their  all,  unknowing,  — • 
Reck  not  of  life's  bright  going ! 

Sing  not  for  lovers,  side  by  side  that  hark; 

Nor  unto  parted  lovers,  save  they  be 

Parted  indeed  by  more  than  makes  the  Sea, 
Where  never  hope  shall  meet  —  like  mounting  lark  — • 

Far  Joy's  uprising;  and  no  memories 
Abide  to  star  the  music-haunted  dark : 

To  them  that  sit  in  darkness,  such  as  these, 
Pour  down,  pour  down  heart's-ease. 

Not  in  Kings'  gardens.    No;  but  where  there  haunt 
The  world's  forgotten,  both  of  men  and  birds; 

The  alleys  of  no  hope  and  of  no  words, 

The  hidings  where  men  reap  not,  though  they  plant; 
But  toil  and  thirst  —  so  dying  and  so  born;  — 

And  toil  and  thirst  to  gather  to  their  want, 

From  the  lean  waste,  beyond  the  daylight's  scorn, 
—  To  gather  grapes  of  thorn ! 

And  for  those  two,  your  pilgrims  without  tears, 

Who  prayed  a  largess  where  there  was  no  dearth, 
Forgive  it  to  their  human-happy  ears: 

Forgive  it  them,  brown  music  of  the  Earth, 
Unknowing,  —  though  the  wiser  silence  knew ! 
Forgive  it  to  the  music  of  the  spheres 
That  while  they  walked  together  so,  the  Two 
Together,  —  heard  not  you. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody. 


56          WHEN  THE  WIND  IS  LOW 

.  — . ..  i  TV**-** 

ONLY  OF  THEE  AND  ME 

ONLY  of  thee  and  me  the  night  wind  sings, 

Only  of  us  the  sailors  speak  at  sea, 
The  earth  is  filled  with  wondered  whisperings 

Only  of  thee  and  me. 

Only  of  thee  and  me  the  breakers  chant, 
Only  of  us  the  stir  in  bush  and  tree; 

The  rain  and  sunshine  tell  the  eager  plant 
Only  of  thee  and  me. 

Only  of  thee  and  me,  till  all  shall  fade; 

Only  of  us  the  whole  world's  thoughts  can  be  — 
For  we  are  Love,  and  God  Himself  is  made 

Only  of  thee  and  me. 

Louis  Untermeyer. 


WHEN  THE  WIND  IS  LOW 

WHEN  the  wind  is  low,  and  the  sea  is  soft, 

And  the  far  heat-lightning  plays 
On  the  rim  of  the  west  where  dark  clouds  nest 

On  a  darker  bank  of  haze; 
When  I  lean  o'er  the  rail  with  you  that  I  love 

And  gaze  to  my  heart's  content; 
I  know  that  the  heavens  are  there  above  — 

But  you  are  my  firmament. 

When  the  phosphor-stars  are  thrown  from  the  bow 
And  the  watch  climbs  up  the  shroud; 

When  the  dim  mast  dips  as  the  vessel  slips 
Through  the  foam  that  seethes  aloud; 


LOVE  TRIUMPHANT 57 

I  know  that  the  years  of  our  life  are  few, 

And  fain  as  a  bird  to  flee, 
That  time  is  as  brief  as  a  drop  of  dew  — 

But  you  are  Eternity. 

Cole  Young  Rice< 


LOVE  TRIUMPHANT 

HELEN'S  lips  are  drifting  dust; 

Ilion  is  consumed  with  rust; 

All  the  galleons  of  Greece 

Drink  the  ocean's  dreamless  peace; 

Lost  was  Solomon's  purple  show 

Restless  centuries  ago; 

Stately  empires  wax  and  wane  — 

Babylon,  Barbary,  and  Spain;  — 

Only  one  thing,  undefaced, 

Lasts,  though  all  the  worlds  lie  waste 

And  the  heavens  are  overturned. 

Dear,  how  long  ago  we  learned! 

There's  a  sight  that  blinds  the  sun, 
Sound  that  lives  when  sounds  are  done, 
Music  that  rebukes  the  birds, 
Language  lovelier  than  words, 
Hue  and  scent  that  shame  the  rose, 
Wine  no  earthly  vineyard  knows, 
Silence  stiller  than  the  shore 
Swept  by  Charon's  stealthy  oar, 
Ocean  more  divinely  free 
Than  Pacific's  boundless  sea,  — 
Ye  who  love  have  learned  it  true. 
Dear,  how  long  ago  we  knew ! 

Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles. 


58        THE  TEARS  OF  HARLEQUIN 

BE  STILL.  THE  HANGING  GARDENS 
WERE  A  DREAM 

(  BE  still.   The  Hanging  Gardens  were  a  dream 
That  over  Persian  roses  flew  to  kiss 
The  curled  lashes  of  Semiramis. 
Troy  never  was,  nor  green  Skamander  stream. 
Provence  and  Troubadour  are  merest  lies, 
The  glorious  hair  of  Venice  was  a  beam 
Made  within  Titian's  eye.  The  sunsets  seem, 
The  world  is  very  old  and  nothing  is. 
Be  still.   Thou  foolish  thing,  thou  canst  not  wake, 
Nor  thy  tears  wedge  thy  soldered  lids  apart, 
But  patter  in  the  darkness  of  thy  heart. 
Thy  brain  is  plagued.   Thou  art  a  frighted  owl 
Blind  with  the  light  of  life  thou'ldst  not  forsake, 
And  Error  loves  and  nourishes  thy  soul. 

Trumbutt  Stickney* 

THE  TEARS  OF  HARLEQUIN 

To  you  he  gave  his  laughter  and  his  jest, 
His  words  that  of  all  words  were  merriest, 

His  glad,  mad  moments  when  the  lights  flared  high 
And  his  wild  song  outshrilled  the  plaudits'  din. 

For  you  that  memory,  but  happier  I  — 
I,  who  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 

Nol  mine  those  moments  when  the  roses  lay 
Like  red  spilled  wine  on  his  triumphant  way, 

And  shouts  acclaimed  him  through  the  music's  beat, 
Above  the  voice  of  flute  and  violin. 

But  I  have  known  his  hour  of  sore  defeat  — 
I —  I  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin- 


THE   BURIED  CITY  59 

Light  kisses  and  light  words,  they  were  not  mine  — 
Poor  perquisites  of  many  a  Columbine 

Bought  with  his  laughter,  flattered  by  his  jest; 
But  when  despair  broke  through  the  painted  grin, 

His  tortured  face  has  fallen  on  my  breast  — 
I  —  I  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 

You  weep  for  him,  who  look  upon  him  dead, 
That  joy  and  jest  and  merriment  are  fled; 

You  weep  for  him,  what  time  my  eyes  are  dry, 
Knowing  what  peace  a  weary  soul  may  win 

Stifled  by  too  much  masking  —  even  I  — 
I,  who  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 

Theodosia  Garrison, 


THE  BURIED  CITY 

MY  heart  is  like  a  city  of  the  gay 

Reared  on  the  ruins  of  a  perished  one 
Wherein  my  dead  loves  cower  from  the  sun, 

White-swathed  like  kings,  the  Pharaohs  of  a  day. 

Within  the  buried  city  stirs  no  sound, 
Save  for  the  bat,  forgetful  of  the  rod, 
Perched  on  the  knee  of  some  deserted  god, 

And  for  the  groan  of  rivers  underground. 

Stray  not,  my  Love,  'mid  the  sarcophagi  — 
Tempt  not  the  silence,  for  the  fates  are  deep, 

Lest  all  the  dreamers,  deeming  doomsday  nigh, 
Leap  forth  in  terror  from  their  haunted  sleep; 

And  like  the  peal  of  an  accursed  bell 

Thy  voice  call  ghosts  of  dead  things  back  from  hell. 

George  Sylvester  Viereck. 


60  THE  RIDE  TO  THE  LADY 

THE  RIDE  TO  THE  LADY 

"Now  since  mine  even  is  come  at  last,  — 
For  I  have  been  the  sport  of  steel, 
Arid  hot  life  ebbeth  from  me  fast, 
And  I  in  saddle  roll  and  reel,  — 
Come  bind  me,  bind  me  on  my  steed! 
Of  fingering  leech  I  have  no  need!" 
The  chaplain  clasped  his  mailed  knee. 

"Nor  need  I  more  thy  whine  and  thee! 
No  time  is  left  my  sins  to  tell; 
But  look  ye  bind  me,  bind  me  well ! " 
They  bound  him  strong  with  leathern  thong, 
For  the  ride  to  the  lady  should  be  long. 

Day  was  dying;  the  poplars  fled, 

Thin  as  ghosts,  on  a  sky  blood-red; 

Out  of  the  sky  the  fierce  hue  fell, 

And  made  the  streams  as  the  streams  of  helL 

All  his  thoughts  as  a  river  flowed, 

Flowed  aflame  as  fleet  he  rode, 

Onward  flowed  to  her  abode, 

Ceased  at  her  feet,  mirrored  her  face. 

(Viewless  Death  apace,  apace, 

Rode  behind  him  in  that  race.) 

"Face,  mine  own,  mine  alone, 
Trembling  lips  my  lips  have  known, 
Birdlike  stir  of  the  dove-soft  eyne 
Under  the  kisses  that  make  them  mine! 
Only  of  thee,  of  thee,  my  need! 
Only  to  thee,  to  thee,  I  speed!" 
The  Cross  flashed  by  at  the  highway's  turn; 
In  a  beam  of  the  moon  the  Face  shone  stern. 


THE   RIDE   TO   THE   LADY  61 


Far  behind  had  the  fight's  din  died; 
The  shuddering  stars  in  the  welkin  wide 
Crowded,  crowded,  to  see  him  ride.      • 
The  beating  hearts  of  the  stars  aloof 
Kept  time  to  the  beat  of  the  horse's  hoof. 
"What  is  the  throb  that  thrills  so  sweet? 
Heart  of  my  lady,  I  feel  it  beat!" 
But  his  own  strong  pulse  the  fainter  fell, 
Like  the  failing  tongue  of  a  hushing  bell. 
The  flank  of  the  great-limbed  steed  was  wet 
Not  alone  with  the  started  sweat. 

Fast,  and  fast,  and  the  thick  black  wood 
Arched  its  cowl  like  a  black  friar's  hood; 
Fast,  and  fast,  and  they  plunged  therein,  — 
But  the  viewless  rider  rode  to  win. 

Out  of  the  wood  to  the  highway's  light 
Galloped  the  great-limbed  steed  in  fright; 
The  mail  clashed  cold,  and  the  sad  owl  cried, 
And  the  weight  of  the  dead  oppressed  his  side. 

Fast,  and  fast,  by  the  road  he  knew; 

And  slow,  and  slow,  the  stars  withdrew; 

And  the  waiting  heaven  turned  weirdly  blue, 

As  a  garment  worn  of  a  wizard  grim. 

He  neighed  at  the  gate  in  the  morning  dim. 

She  heard  no  sound  before  her  gate, 

Though  very  quiet  was  her  bower. 

All  was  as  her  hand  had  left  it  late: 

The  needle  slept  on  the  broidered  vine, 

Where  the  hammer  and  spike:1  of  the  passion-flower 

Her  fashioning  did  wait. 


62  EVENSONG 

On  the  couch  lay  something  fair, 

With  steadfast  lips  and  veiled  eyne; 

But  the  lady  was  not  there. 

On  the  wings  of  shrift  and  prayer, 

Pure  as  winds  that  winnow  snow, 

Her  soul  had  risen  twelve  hours  ago. 

The  burdened  steed  at  the  barred  gate  stood, 

No  whit  the  nearer  to  his  goal. 

Now  God's  great  grace  assoil  the  soul 

That  went  out  in  the  wood ! 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 


EVENSONG 

BEAUTY  calls  and  gives  no  warning, 

Shadows  rise  and  wander  on  the  day. 

In  the  twilight,  in  the  quiet  evening, 

We  shall  rise  and  smile  and  go  away. 

Over  the  flaming  leaves 

Freezes  the  sky. 

It  is  the  season  grieves, 

Not  you,  not  I. 

All  our  spring-times,  all  our  summers, 

We  have  kept  the  longing  warm  within. 

Now  we  leave  the  after-comers 

To  attain  the  dreams  we  did  not  win. 

O  we  have  wakened,  Sweet,  and  had  our  birth, 

And  that's  the  end  of  earth; 

And  we  have  toiled  and  smiled  and  kept  the  light, 

And  that 's  the  end  of  night. 

Ridgely  Torrcnce. 


GOLDEN  PULSE  6S 

WITCHERY 

OUT  of  the  purple  drifts, 

From  the  shadow  sea  of  night, 
On  tides  of  musk  a  moth  uplifts 

Its  weary  wings  of  white. 

Is  it  a  dream  or  ghost 

Of  a  dream  that  comes  to  me, 
Here  in  the  twilight  on  the  coast, 

Blue  cinctured  by  the  sea? 

Fashioned  of  foam  and  froth  — 

And  the  dream  is  ended  soon, 
And  lo,  whence  came  the  moon- white  moth 

Comes  now  the  moth-white  moon! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman* 


GOLDEN  PULSE 

GOLDEN  pulse  grew  on  the  shore, 

Ferns  along  the  hill, 
And  the  red  cliff  roses  bore 

Bees  to  drink  their  fill; 

Bees  that  from  the  meadows  bring 

Wine  of  melilot, 
Honey-sups  on  golden  wing 

To  the  garden  grot. 

But  to  me,  neglected  flower, 
Phaon  will  not  see, 


64  SAPPHO 


Passion  brings  no  crowning  hour, 
Honey  nor  the  bee. 

John  Myers  O'Hara. 


SAPPHO 

THE  twilight's  inner  flame  grows  blue  and  deep, 

And  in  my  Lesbos,  over  leagues  of  sea, 

The  temples  glimmer  moonwise  in  the  trees. 

Twilight  has  veiled  the  little  flower  face 

Here  on  my  heart,  but  still  the  night  is  kind 

And  leaves  her  warm  sweet  weight  against  my  breast* 

Am  I  that  Sappho  who  would  run  at  dusk 

Along  the  surges  creeping  up  the  shore 

When  tides  came  in  to  ease  the  hungry  beach, 

And  running,  running,  till  the  night  was  black, 

Would  fall  forespent  upon  the  chilly  sand 

And  quiver  with  the  winds  from  off  the  sea? 

Ah,  quietly  the  shingle  waits  the  tides 

Whose  waves  are  stinging  kisses,  but  to  me 

Love  brought  no  peace,  nor  darkness  any  rest. 

I  crept  and  touched  the  foam  with  fevered  hands 

And  cried  to  Love,  from  whom  the  sea  is  sweet, 

From  whom  the  sea  is  bitterer  than  death. 

Ah,  Aphrodite,  if  I  sing  no  more 

To  thee,  God's  daughter,  powerful  as  God, 

It  is  that  thou  hast  made  my  life  too  sweet 

To  hold  the  added  sweetness  of  a  song. 

There  is  a  quiet  at  the  heart  of  love, 

And  I  have  pierced  the  pain  and  come  to  peace. 

I  hold  my  peace,  my  Clei's,  on  my  heart; 

And  softer  than  a  little  wild  bird's  wing 


SAPPHO  65 


Are  kisses  that  she  pours  upon  my  mouth. 

Ah,  never  any  more  when  spring  like  fire 

Will  flicker  in  the  newly  opened  leaves, 

Shall  I  steal  forth  to  seek  for  solitude 

Beyond  the  lure  of  light  Alcseus'  lyre, 

Beyond  the  sob  that  stilled  Erinna's  voice. 

Ah,  never  with  a  throat  that  aches  with  song, 

Beneath  the  white  uncaring  sky  of  spring, 

Shall  I  go  forth  to  hide  awhile  from  Love 

The  quiver  and  the  crying  of  my  heart. 

Still  I  remember  how  I  strove  to  flee 

The  love-note  of  the  birds,  and  bowed  my  head 

To  hurry  faster,  but  upon  the  ground 

I  saw  two  winged  shadows  side  by  side, 

And  all  the  world's  spring  passion  stifled  me. 

Ah,  Love,  there  is  no  fleeing  from  thy  might, 

No  lonely  place  where  thou  hast  never  trod, 

No  desert  thou  hast  left  uncarpeted 

With  flowers  that  spring  beneath  thy  perfect  feet. 

In  many  guises  didst  thou  come  to  me; 

I  saw  thee  by  the  maidens  while  they  danced, 

Phaon  allured  me  with  a  look  of  thine, 

In  Anactoria  I  knew  thy  grace, 

I  looked  at  Cercolas  and  saw  thine  eyes; 

But  never  wholly,  soul  and  body  mine, 

Didst  thou  bid  any  love  me  as  I  loved. 

Now  I  have  found  the  peace  that  fled  from  me; 

Close,  close,  against  my  heart  I  hold  my  world. 

Ah,  Love  that  made  my  life  a  lyric  cry, 

Ah,  Love  that  tuned  ray  lips  to  lyres  of  thine, 

I  taught  the  world  thy  music,  now  alone 

I  sing  for  one  who  falls  asleep  to  hear. 

Sara  Teasdale. 


66     HARPS  HUNG  UP  IN  BABYLON 

HARPS  HUNG  UP  IN  BABYLON 

THE  harps  hung  up  in  Babylon, 
Their  loosened  strings  rang  on,  sang  on, 
And  cast  their  murmurs  forth  upon 
The  roll  and  roar  of  Babylon: 
*'  Forget  me,  Lord,  if  I  forget 
Jerusalem  for  Babylon, 
If  I  forget  the  vision  set 
High  as  the  head  of  Lebanon 
Is  lifted  over  Syria  yet, 
If  I  forget  and  bow  me  down 
To  brutish  gods  of  Babylon." 

Two  rivers  to  each  other  run 
In  the  very  midst  of  Babylon, 
And  swifter  than  their  current  fleets 
The  restless  river  of  the  streets 
Of  Babylon,  of  Babylon, 
And  Babylon's  towers  smite  the  sky, 
But  higher  reeks  to  God  most  high 
The  smoke  of  her  iniquity : 

"But  oh,  betwixt  the  green  and  blue 
To  walk  the  hills  that  once  we  knew 
When  you  were  pure  and  I  was  true,"  — 
So  rang  the  harps  in  Babylon  — 

"  Or  ere  along  the  roads  of  stone 
Had  led  us  captive  one  by  one 
The  subtle  gods  of  Babylon." 

The  harps  hung  up  in  Babylon 
Hung  silent  till  the  prophet  dawn, 
When  Judah's  feet  the  highway  burned 
Back  to  the  holy  hills  returned, 


LIVE  BLINDLY 


And  shook  their  dust  on  Babylon. 
In  Zion's  halls  the  wild  harps  rang, 
To  Zion's  walls  their  smitten  clang, 
And  lo!  of  Babylon  they  sang, 
They  only  sang  of  Babylon  : 
"Jehovah,  round  whose  throne  of  awe 
The  vassal  stars  their  orbits  draw 
Within  the  circle  of  Thy  law, 
Canst  thou  make  nothing  what  is  done, 
Or  cause  Thy  servant  to  be  one 
That  has  not  been  in  Babylon, 
That  has  not  known  the  power  and  pain 
Of  life  poured  out  like  driven  rain? 
1  will  go  down  and  find  again 
My  soul  that  's  lost  in  Babylon" 

Arthur  Colton. 

LIVE  BLINDLY 

LIVE  blindly  and  upon  the  hour.   The  Lord, 
Who  was  the  Future,  died  full  long  ago. 
Knowledge  which  is  the  Past  is  folly.   Go, 
Poor  child,  and  be  not  to  thyself  abhorred. 
Around  thine  earth  sun-winged  winds  do  blow 
And  planets  roll;  a  meteor  draws  his  sword; 
The  rainbow  breaks  his  seven-coloured  chord 
And  the  long  strips  of  river-silver  flow: 
Awake!  Give  thyself  to  the  lovely  hours. 
Drinking  their  lips,  catch  thou  the  dream  in  flight 
About  their  fragile  hairs'  aerial  gold. 
Thou  art  divine,  thou  livest,  —  as  of  old 
Apollo  springing  naked  to  the  light, 
And  all  his  island  shivered  into  flowers. 

Trumbull  Stickney. 


68  WANDERERS 


LOVE'S  SPRINGTIDE 

MY  heart  was  winter-bound  until 

I  heard  you  sing; 
O  voice  of  Love,  hush  not,  but  fill 

My  life  with  Spring ! 

My  hopes  were  homeless  things  before 

I  saw  your  eyes; 
O  smile  of  Love,  close  not  the  door 

To  paradise! 

My  dreams  were  bitter  once,  and  then 

1  found  them  bliss; 
O  lips  of  Love,  give  me  again 

Your  rose  to  kiss! 

Springtide  of  Love!  The  secret  sweet 

Is  ours  alone; 
O  heart  of  Love,  at  last  you  beat 

Against  my  own ! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


WANDERERS 

SWEET  is  the  highroad  when  the  skylarks  call, 
When  we  and  Love  go  rambling  through  the  land, 
But  shall  we  still  walk  gayly,  hand  in  hand, 

At  the  road's  turning  and  the  twilight's  fall? 

Then  darkness  shall  divide  us  like  a  wall, 

And  uncouth  evil  nightbirds  flap  their  wings; 
The  solitude  of  all  created  things 

Will  creep  upon  us  shuddering  like  a  pall. 


BALLADE  OF  MY  LADY'S  BEAUTY    69 

This  is  the  knowledge  I  have  wrung  from  pain: 
We,  yea,  all  lovers,  are  not  one,  but  twain, 

Each  by  strange  wisps  to  strange  abysses  drawn  s 
But  through  the  black  immensity  of  night 
Love's  little  lantern,  like  a  glowworm's,  bright, 

May  lead  our  steps  to  some  stupendous  dawn. 

George  Sylvester  Viereck0 


BALLADE  OF  MY  LADY'S  BEAUTY 

SQUIRE  ADAM  had  two  wives,  they  say, 
Two  wives  had  he,  for  his  delight, 

He  kissed  and  clypt  them  all  the  day 
And  clypt  and  kissed  them  all  the  nighto 
Now  Eve  like  ocean  foam  was  white 

And  Lilith  roses  dipped  in  wine, 

But  though  they  were  a  goodly  sight 

No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

To  Venus  some  folk  tribute  pay 

And  Queen  of  Beauty  she  is  hight, 
And  Sainte  Marie  the  world  doth  sway 

In  cerule  napery  bedight. 

My  wonderment  these  twain  invite, 
Their  comeliness  it  is  divine, 

And  yet  I  say  in  their  despite, 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

Dame  Helen  caused  a  grievous  fray, 
For  love  of  her  brave  men  did  fight, 

The  eyes  of  her  made  sages  fey 

And  put  their  hearts  in  woeful  plight. 


70  GRIEVE  NOT,  LADIES 

To  her  no  rhymes  will  I  indite, 
For  her  no  garlands  will  I  twine, 

Though  she  be  made  of  flowers  and  light 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

L'ENVOI 

Prince  Eros,  Lord  of  lovely  might, 
Who  on  Olympus  dost  recline> 

Do  I  not  tell  the  truth  aright? 
No  lady  is  so  fair  as  mine. 

Joyce  Kilmer, 


GRIEVE  NOT,  LADIES 

OH,  grieve  not,  Ladies,  if  at  night 
Ye  wake  to  feel  your  beauty  going. 

It  was  a  web  of  frail  delight, 
Inconstant  as  an  April  snowing. 

In  other  eyes,  in  other  lands, 

In  deep  fair  pools,  new  beauty  lingers, 
But  like  spent  water  in  your  hands 

It  runs  from  your  reluctant  fingers. 

Ye  shall  not  keep  the  singing  lark 
That  owes  to  earlier  skies  its  duty. 

Weep  not  to  hear  along  the  dark 
The  sound  of  your  departing  beauty  0 

The  fine  and  anguished  ear  of  night 
Is  tuned  to  hear  the  smallest  sorrows 

Oh,  wait  until  the  morning  light! 
It  may  not  seem  so  gone  to-morrow! 


GRIEVE   NOT,    LADIES 71 

But  honey-pale  and  rosy-red ! 

Brief  lights  that  made  a  little  shining? 
Beautiful  looks  about  us  shed  — 

They  leave  us  to  the  old  repining. 

Think  not  the  watchful  dim  despair 

Has  come  to  you  the  first,  sweet-heartedS 

For  oh,  the  gold  in  Helen's  hair! 

And  how  she  cried  when  that  departed! 

Perhaps  that  one  that  took  the  most, 
The  swiftest  borrower,  wildest  spender, 

May  count,  as  we  would  not,  the  cost  — 
And  grow  more  true  to  us  and  tender. 

Happy  are  we  if  in  his  eyes 

We  see  no  shadow  of  forgetting. 
Nay  —  if  our  star  sinks  in  those  skies 

We  shall  not  wholly  see  its  setting. 

Then  let  us  laugh  as  do  the  brooks 
That  such  immortal  youth  is  ours, 

If  memory  keeps  for  them  our  looks 
As  fresh  as  are  the  spring-time  flowers. 

Oh,  grieve  not,  Ladies,  if  at  night 
Ye  wake,  to  feel  the  cold  December! 

Rather  recall  the  early  light 

And  in  your  loved  one's  arms,  remember. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch, 


I  SHALL  NOT  CARE 


OF  JOAN'S  YOUTH 

I  WOULD  unto  my  fair  restore 

A  simple  thing : 

The  flushing  cheek  she  had  before! 

Out-velveting 

No  more,  no  more, 

On  our  sad  shore, 

The  carmine  grape,  the  moth's  auroral  wing. 

Ah,  say  how  winds  in  flooding  grass 

Unmoor  the  rose; 

Or  guileful  ways  the  salmon  pass 

To  sea,  disclose: 

For  so,  alas, 

With  Love,  alas, 

With  fatal,  fatal  Love  a  girlhood  goes. 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney, 


I  SHALL  NOT  CARE 

WHEN  I  am  dead  and  over  me  bright  April 

Shakes  out  her  rain-drenched  hair, 
Though  you  should  lean  above  me  broken-hearted, 

I  shall  not  care. 

I  shall  have  peace  as  leafy  trees  are  peaceful, 

When  rain  bends  down  the  bough, 
And  I  shall  be  more  silent  and  cold-hearted 

Than  you  are  now. 

Sara  Teasdale. 


THERE'S  ROSEMARY  73 

LOVE  CAME  BACK  AT  FALL  O'  DEW 

LOVE  came  back  at  fall  o'  dew, 
Playing  his  old  part; 
But  I  had  a  word  or  two 
That  would  break  his  heart. 

"He  who  comes  at  candlelight, 
That  should  come  before, 
Must  betake  him  to  the  night 
From  a  barred  door." 

This  the  word  that  made  us  part 
In  the  fall  o'  dew; 

This  the  word  that  brake  his  heart  — • 
Yet  it  brake  mine,  too. 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 


THERE'S  ROSEMARY 

O  LOVE  that  is  not  Love,  but  dear,  so  dear! 
That  is  not  love  because  it  goes  full  soon, 
Like  flower  born  and  dead  within  one  moon, 

And  yet  is  love,  for  that  it  comes  too  near 

The  guarded  fane  where  love  alone  may  peer, 

Ere,  like  young  spring  by  summer  soon  outshone, 
It  trembles  into  death;  yet  comes  anon 

As  thoughts  of  spring  will  come  though  summer's 
here. 

O  star  prelusive  to  a  dream  more  fair, 

Within  my  heart  I  '11  keep  a  heaven  for  thee 


74    GREY  ROCKS  AND  GREYER  SEA 

Where  thou  mayst  freely  come  and  freely  go, 
Touching  with  thy  faint  gold  ere  I  am  'ware 
A  twilight  hope  —  a  dawn  I  did  not  see  — 
O  love  that  is  not  Love,  but  nearly  so ! 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan. 


LOVE'S  RITUAL 

BREATHE  me  the  ancient  words  when  I  shall  find 
Your  spirit  mine;  if,  seeking  you,  life  wins 

New  wonder,  with  old  splendor  let  us  bind 

Our  hearts  when  Love's  high  sacrament  begins. 

Exalt  my  soul  with  pomp  and  pageantry, 

Sing  the  eternal  songs  all  lovers  sing; 
Yea,  when  you  come,  gold  let  our  vestments  be, 

And  lamps  of  silver  let  us  softly  swing. 

But  if  at  last,  (hark  how  I  whisper,  Love !) 

You  from  my  temple  and  from  me  should  turn, 

I  pray  you  chant  no  psalm  my  grief  above, 
Over  the  body  of  Pain  let  no  light  burn. 

Go  forth  in  silence,  quiet  as  a  dove, 

Drift,  with  no  sign,  from  our  exultant  place; 

We  need  no  lie  at  the  death  of  Love, 

And  none  should  come  to  look  on  Love's  white  face. 
Charles  Hanson  Towne. 


GREY  ROCKS  AND  GREYER  SEA 

GREY  rocks,  and  greyer  sea, 
And  surf  along  the  shore  — 


THINK    NOT   I   FORGET     73 

And  in  my  heart  a  name 
My  lips  shall  speak  no  more. 

The  high  and  lonely  hills 

Endure  the  darkening  year  — - 

And  in  my  heart  endure 
A  memory  and  a  tear. 

Across  the  tide  a  sail 

That  tosses,  and  is  gone  — 
And  in  my  heart  the  kiss 

That  longing  dreams  upon. 

Grey  rocks,  and  greyer  sea, 

And  surf  along  the  shore  — 
And  in  my  heart  the  face 

That  I  shall  see  no  more. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 


"GRANDMITHER,  THINK  NOT  I  FORGET" 

GRANDMITHER,  think  not  I  forget,  when  I  come  back 

to  town, 
An'  wander  the  old  ways  again,  an'  tread  them  up  and 

down. 

I  never  smell  the  clover  bloom,  nor  see  the  swallows  pass,. 
Wi'out  I  mind  how  good  ye  were  unto  a  little  lass; 
I  never  hear  the  winter  rain  a-pelting  all  night  through 
Wi'out  I  think  and  mind  me  of  how  cold  it  falls  on  you. 
An'  if  I  come  not  often  to  your  bed  beneath  the  thyme, 
Mayhap  't  is  that  I'd  change  wi'  ye,  and  gie  my  bed 

for  thine, 
Would  like  to  sleep  in  thine. 


76  THINK   NOT   I   FORGET 

I  never  hear  the  summer  winds  among    the  roses 

blow 

Wi'out  I  wonder  why  it  was  ye  loved  the  lassie  so. 
Ye  gave  me  cakes  and  lollipops  and  pretty  toys  a 

score  — 
I  never  thought  I  should  come  back  and  ask  ye  now  for 

more. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  still  white  hands  that  lie 

upon  your  breast, 
For  mine  do  beat  the  dark  all  night  and  never  find  me 

rest; 
They  grope  among  the  shadows  an'  they  beat  the  cold 

black  air. 
They  go  seekin'  in  the  darkness,  an'  they  never  find 

him  there, 

They  never  find  him  there. 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  sightless  eyes,  that  I  may 

never  see 
His  own  a-burnin'  full  o'  love  that  must  not  shine  for 

me. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  peaceful  lips,  white  as  the 

kirkyard  snow, 
For  mine  be  tremblin'  wi'  the  wish  that  he  must  never 

know. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  clay-stopped  ears,  that  7 

may  never  hear 
My   lad  a-singin'  in  the  night  when  I  am  sick  wi* 

fear; 
A-singin'  when    the  moonlight   over  a*   the  land  is 

white  — 

Ah,  God!  I'll  up  and  go  to  him,  a-singin'  in  the  night, 
A-callin'  in  the  night. 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD  77 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  clay-cold  heart,  that  has 

forgot  to  ache, 
For  mine  be  fire  wi'in  my  breast  an*  yet  it  cannot 

break. 
Wi'  every  beat  it's  callin'  for  things  that  must  not 

be,— 

So  can  ye  not  let  me  creep  in  an'  rest  awhile  by  ye? 
A  little  lass  afeard  o'  dark  slept  by  ye  years  agone  — 
An'  she  has  found  what  night  can  hold  'twixt  sunset 

an'  the  dawn: 
So  when  I  plant  the  rose  an'  rue  above  your  grave  for 

ye, 

Y^.'ll  know  it's  under  rue  an'  rose  that  I  would  like  to 
be, 
That  I  would  like  to  be. 

Witta  Sibert  Gather. 


"WHEN  I  AM  DEAD  AND  SISTER  TO 
THE   DUST" 

WHEN  I  am  dead  and  sister  to  the  dust; 
When  no  more  avidly  I  drink  the  wine 
Of  human  love;  when  the  pale  Proserpine 

Has  covered  me  with  poppies,  and  cold  rust 

Has  cut  my  lyre-strings,  and  the  sun  has  thrust 
Me  underground  to  nourish  the  world- vine,  — 
Men  shall  discover  these  old  songs  of  mine, 

And  say :  This  woman  lived  —  as  poets  must ! 

This  woman  lived  and  wore  life  as  a  sword 

To  conquer  wisdom;  this  dead  woman  read 
In  the  sealed  Book  of  Love  and  underscored 


78         SONGS  FROM   ST.   JOSEPH'S 

The  meanings.  Then  the  sails  of  faith  she  spread, 
And  faring  out  for  regions  unexplored, 

Went  singing  down  the  River  of  the  Dead. 

Elsa  Barker. 


LITTLE   GRAY   SONGS  FROM   ST.  JOSEPHS 
I 

WITH  cassock  black,  baret  and  book, 

Father  Saran  goes  by; 
I  think  he  goes  to  say  a  prayer 

For  one  who  has  to  die. 

Even  so,  some  day,  Father  Saran 

May  say  a  prayer  for  me; 
Myself  meanwhile,  the  Sister  tells, 

Should  pray  unceasingly. 

They  kneel  who  pray :  how  may  I  kneel 

Who  face  to  ceiling  lie, 
Shut  out  by  all  that  man  has  made 

From  God  who  made  the  sky? 

They  lift  who  pray  —  the  low  earth-born  — 

A  humble  heart  to  God : 
But  O,  my  heart  of  clay  is  proud  — 

True  sister  to  the  sod. 

I  look  into  the  face  of  God, 

They  say  bends  over  me; 
I  search  the  dark,  dark  face  of  God  — 

O  what  is  it  I  see? 


SONGS   FROM   ST.   JOSEPH'S        79 

I  see  —  who  lie  fast  bound,  who  may 

Not  kneel,  who  can  but  seek  — 
I  see  mine  own  face  over  me, 

With  tears  upon  its  cheek. 

II 

If  my  dark  grandam  had  but  known, 

Or  yet  my  wild  grandsir, 
Or  the  lord  that  lured  the  maid  away 

That  was  my  sad  mother, 

O  had  they  known,  O  had  they  dreamed 

What  gift  it  was  they  gave, 
Would  they  have  stayed  their  wild,  wild  loves 

Nor  made  my  years  their  slave? 

Must  they  have  stopped  their  hungry  lips 
From  love  at  thought  of  me? 

0  life,  O  life,  how  may  we  learn 
Thy  strangest  mystery? 

Nay,  they  knew  not,  as  we  scarce  know; 

Their  souls,  O  let  them  rest; 
My  life  is  pupil  unto  pain  — 

With  him  I  make  my  quest. 

Ill 

My  little  soul  I  never  saw, 
Nor  can  I  count  its  days; 

1  do  not  know  its  wondrous  law 
And  yet  I  know  its  ways. 

O  it  is  young  as  morning-hours, 
And  old  as  is  the  night; 


80  IRISH  PEASANT  SONG 

O  it  has  growth  of  budding  flowers, 
Yet  tastes  my  body's  blight. 

And  it  is  silent  and  apart, 

And  far  and  fair  and  still, 
Yet  ever  beats  within  my  heart, 

And  cries  within  my  will. 

And  it  is  light  and  bright  and  strange, 

And  sees  life  far  away, 
Yet  far  with  near  can  interchange 

And  dwell  within  the  day. 

My  soul  has  died  a  thousand  deaths, 

And  yet  it  does  not  die; 
My  soul  has  broke  a  thousand  faiths, 

And  yet  it  cannot  lie; 

My  soul  —  there's  naught  can  make  it  less; 

My  soul  —  there's  naught  can  mar; 
Yet  here  it  weeps  with  loneliness 

Within  its  lonely  star. 

My  soul  —  not  any  dark  can  bind, 

Nor  hinder  any  hand, 
Yet  here  it  weeps  —  long  blind,  long  blind  — 

And  cannot  understand. 

Grace  Fallow  Norton. 


IRISH  PEASANT   SONG 

I  TRY  to  knead  and  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the  while. 
Oh,  I  long  to  be  alone,  and  walk  abroad  a  mile: 


THE  PRINCE  81 

Yet  if  I  walk  alone,  and  think  of  naught  at  all, 
Why  from  me  that's  young  should  the  wild  tears  fall? 

The  shower-sodden  earth,  the  earth-colored  streams, 
They  breathe  on  me  awake,  and  moan  to  me  hi 

dreams, 

And  yonder  ivy  fondling  the  broke  castle-wall, 
It  pulls  upon  my  heart  till  the  wild  tears  fall. 

The  cabin-door  looks  down  a  furze-lighted  hill, 
And  far  as  Leighlin  Cross  the  fields  are  green  and  still; 
But  once  I  hear  the  blackbird  in  Leighlin  hedges  call, 
The  foolishness  is  on  me,  and  the  wild  tears  fall! 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 


THE  PRINCE 

MY  heart  it  was  a  cup  of  gold 
That  at  his  lip  did  long  to  lie, 
But  he  hath  drunk  the  red  wine  down, 
And  tossed  the  goblet  by. 

My  heart  it  was  a  floating  bird 

That  through  the  world  did  wander  free, 

But  he  hath  locked  it  in  a  cage, 

And  lost  the  silver  key. 

My  heart  it  was  a  white,  white  rose 
That  bloomed  upon  a  broken  bough, 
He  did  but  wear  it  for  an  hour, 
And  it  is  withered  now. 

Josephine  Dodge  Daskam. 


82          A  WEST-COUNTRY  LOVER 

FOUR  WINDS 

"Four  winds  blowing  thro'  the  sky, 

You  have  seen  poor  maidens  die, 

Tell  me  then  what  I  shall  do 

That  my  lover  may  be  true." 

Said  the  wind  from  out  the  south, 
"Lay  no  kiss  upon  his  mouth," 

And  the  wind  from  out  the  west, 
"Wound  the  heart  within  his  breast," 

And  the  wind  from  out  the  east, 
"Send  him  empty  from  the  feast," 

And  the  wind  from  out  the  north, 
"In  the  tempest  thrust  him  forth; 

When  thou  art  more  cruel  than  he, 

Then  will  Love  be  kind  to  thee." 

Sara  Teasdale. 

A  WEST-COUNTRY  LOVER 

THEN,  lady,  at  last  thou  art  sick  of  my  sighing. 

Good-bye! 
So  long  as  I  sue,  thou  wilt  still  be  denying? 

Good-bye! 

Ah,  well!  shall  I  vow  then  to  serve  thee  forever, 
And  swear  no  unkindness  our  kinship  can  sever? 
Nay,  nay,  dear  my  lass!  here's  an  end  of  endeavor. 

Good-bye! 

Yet  let  no  sweet  ruth  for  my  misery  grieve  thee. 

Good-bye! 

The  man  who  has  loved  knows  as  well  how  to  leave 
thee. 

Good-bye! 


A  WINTER  RIDE  83 

The  gorse  is  enkindled,  there's  bloom  on  the  heather, 
And  love  is  my  joy,  but  so  too  is  fair  weather; 
\  still  ride  abroad  though  we  ride  not  together. 
Good-bye! 

My  horse  is  my  mate;  let  the  wind  be  my  master. 

Good-bye! 
Though  Care  may  pursue,  yet  my  hound  follows  faster. 

Good-bye! 

Ths  red  deer's  a-tremble  in  coverts  unbroken. 
He  hears  the  hoof- thunder;  he  scents  the  death-token. 
Shall  I  mope  at  home,  under  vows  never  spoken? 

Good-bye! 

The  brown  earth's  my  book,  and  I  ride  forth  to  read  it. 

Good-bye! 
The  stream  runneth  fast,  but  my  will  shall  outspeed  it. 

Good-bye ! 

I  love  thee,  dear  lass,  but  I  hate  the  hag  Sorrow. 
As  sun  follows  rain,  and  to-night  has  its  morrow, 
So  I'll  taste  of  joy,  though  I  steal,  beg,  or  borrow! 

Good-bye! 

Alice  Brown. 

A  WINTER  RIDE 

WHO  shall  declare  the  joy  of  the  running! 

Who  shall  tell  of  the  pleasures  of  flight! 
Springing  and  spurning  the  tufts  of  wild  heather, 

Sweeping,  wide-winged,  through  the  blue  dome  of 

light. 
Everything  mortal  has  moments  immortal, 

Swift  and  God-gifted,  immeasurably  bright. 


84      ACROSS  THE  FIELDS  TO  ANNE 

So  with  the  stretch  of  the  white  road  before  me, 

Shining  snow  crystals  rainbowed  by  the  sun, 
Fields  that  are  white,  stained  with  long,  cool,  blue 

shadows, 

Strong  with  the  strength  of  my  horse  as  we  run. 
Joy  in  the  touch  of  the  wind  and  the  sunlight! 
Joy!  With  the  vigorous  earth  I  am  one. 

Amy  Lowell. 

SIC  VITA 

HEART  free,  hand  free, 

Blue  above,  brown  under, 
All  the  world  to  me 

Is  a  place  of  wonder. 
Sun  shine,  moon  shine, 

Stars,  and  winds  a-blowing, 
All  into  this  heart  of  mine 

Flowing,  flowing,  flowing! 

Mind  free,  step  free, 

Days  to  follow  after, 
Joys  of  life  sold  to  me 

For  the  price  of  laughter. 
Girl's  love,  man's  love, 

Love  of  work  and  duty, 
Just  a  will  of  God's  to  prove 

Beauty,  beauty,  beauty! 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite* 

ACROSS  THE  FIELDS  TO  ANNE 

How  often  in  the  summer-tide, 
His  graver  business  set  aside, 


ACROSS  THE   FIELDS  TO   ANNE 

Has  stripling  Will,  the  thoughtful-eyed, 
As  to  the  pipe  of  Pan, 
Stepped  blithesomely  with  lover's  pride 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

It  must  have  been  a  merry  mile, 
This  summer  stroll  by  hedge  and  stile, 
With  sweet  foreknowledge  all  the  while 
How  sure  the  pathway  ran 
To  dear  delights  of  kiss  and  smile, 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

The  silly  sheep  that  graze  to-day, 
I  wot,  they  let  him  go  his  way, 
Nor  once  looked  up,  as  who  should  says 
16  It  is  a  seemly  man.'* 
For  many  lads  went  wooing  aye 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

The  oaks,  they  have  a  wiser  look; 
Mayhap  they  whispered  to  the  brook: 
"The  world  by  him  shall  yet  be  shook, 
It  is  in  nature's  plan; 
Though  now  he  fleets  like  any  rook 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne." 

And  I  am  sure,  that  on  some  hour 
Coquetting  soft  'twixt  sun  and  shower, 
He  stooped  and  broke  a  daisy-flower 
With  heart  of  tiny  span, 
And  bore  it  as  a  lover's  dower 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 


86       THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  ROAD 

While  from  her  cottage  garden-bed 
She  plucked  a  jasmine's  goodlihede, 
To  scent  his  jerkin's  brown  instead; 
Now  since  that  love  began, 
What  luckier  swain  than  he  who  sped 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne? 

The  winding  path  whereon  I  pace, 

The  hedgerow's  green,  the  summer's  grace., 

Are  still  before  me  face  to  face; 

Methinks  I  almost  can 

Turn  poet  and  join  the  singing  race 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne! 

Richard  Burton. 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  ROAD 

THE  little  Road  says,  Go, 
The  little  House  says,  Stay: 
And  O,  it's  bonny  here  at  home, 
But  I  must  go  away. 

The  little  Road,  like  me, 
Would  seek  and  turn  and  know; 
And  forth  I  must,  to  learn  the  things 
The  little  Road  would  show! 

And  go  I  must,  my  dears, 

And  journey  while  I  may, 

Though  heart  be  sore  for  the  little  House 

That  had  no  word  but  Stay. 


THE  PATH  TO  THE  WOODS         87 

Maybe,  no  other  way 

Your  child  could  ever  know 

Why  a  little  House  would  have  you  stay, 

When  a  little  Road  says,  Go. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabodg,, 


THE  PATH  TO  THE  WOODS 

ITS  friendship  and  its  carelessness 

Did  lead  me  many  a  mile, 

Through  goat's-rue,  with  its  dim  caress, 

And  pink  and  pearl-white  smile; 

Through  crowfoot,  with  its  golden  lure, 

And  promise  of  far  things, 

And  sorrel  with  its  glance  demure 

And  wide-eyed  wonderings. 

It  led  me  with  its  innocence, 

As  childhood  leads  the  wise, 

With  elbows  here  of  tattered  fence, 

And  blue  of  wildflower  eyes; 

With  whispers  low  of  leafy  speech, 

And  brook-sweet  utterance; 

With  bird-like  words  of  oak  and  beech. 

And  whisperings  clear  as  Pan's. 

It  led  me  with  its  childlike  charm, 

As  candor  leads  desire, 

Now  with  a  clasp  of  blossomy  arm, 

A  butterfly  kiss  of  fire; 

Now  with  a  toss  of  tousled  gold, 

A  barefoot  sound  of  green, 


88       THE  PATH  TO  THE   WOODS_ 

A  breath  of  musk,  of  mossy  mold, 
With  vague  allurements  keen. 

It  led  me  with  remembered  things 

Into  an  old-time  vale, 

Peopled  with  faery  glimmerings, 

And  flower-like  fancies  pale; 

Where  fungous  forms  stood,  gold  and  gray, 

Each  in  its  mushroom  gown, 

And,  roofed  with  red,  glimpsed  far  away, 

A  little  toadstool  town. 

It  led  me  with  an  idle  ease, 

A  vagabond  look  and  air, 

A  sense  of  ragged  arms  and  knees 

In  weeds  grown  everywhere; 

It  led  me,  as  a  gypsy  leads, 

To  dingles  no  one  knows, 

With  beauty  burred  with  thorny  seedsv 

And  tangled  wild  with  rose. 

It  led  me  as  simplicity 
Leads  age  and  its  demands, 
With  bee-beat  of  its  ecstasy, 
And  berry-stained  touch  of  hands; 
Writh  round  revealments,  puff-ball  white. 
Through  rents  of  weedy  brown, 
And  petaled  movements  of  delight 
In  roseleaf  limb  and  gown. 

It  led  me  on  and  on  and  on, 

Beyond  the  Far  Away, 

Into  a  world  long  dead  and  gone,  — 


RENASCENCE  89 


The  world  of  Yesterday : 
A  faery  world  of  memory, 
Old  with  its  hills  and  streams, 
Wherein  the  child  I  used  to  be 
Still  wanders  with  his  dreams. 

Madison  Cawein. 


SOMETIMES 

ACROSS  the  fields  of  yesterday 

He  sometimes  comes  to  me, 
A.  little  lad  just  back  from  play  — 

The  lad  I  used  to  be. 

And  yet  he  smiles  Sv/  wistfully 

Once  he  has  crept  within, 
I  wonder  if  he  hopes  to  see 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr0 


RENASCENCE 

ALL  I  could  see  from  where  I  stood 
Was  three  long  mountains  and  a  wood; 
I  turned  and  looked  another  way, 
And  saw  three  islands  in  a  bay. 
So  with  my  eyes  I  traced  the  line 
Of  the  horizon,  thin  and  fine, 
Straight  around  till  I  was  come 
Back  to  where  I'd  started  from; 
And  all  I  saw  from  where  I  stood 
Was  three  long  mountains  and  a  wood. 


90  RENASCENCE 


Over  these  things  I  could  not  see; 
These  were  the  things  that  bounded  me; 
And  I  could  touch  them  with  my  hand, 
Almost,  I  thought,  from  where  1  stand. 
And  all  at  once  things  seemed  so  small 
My  breath  came  short,  and  scarce  at  all. 
But,  sure,  the  sky  is  big,  I  said; 
Miles  and  miles  above  my  head; 
So  here  upon  my  back  I'll  lie 
And  look  my  fill  into  the  sky. 
And  so  I  looked,  and,  after  all, 
The  sky  was  not  so  very  tall. 
The  sky,  I  said,  must  somewhere  stop, 
And  —  sure  enough !  —  I  see  the  top ! 
The  sky,  I  thought,  is  not  so  grand; 
I  'most  could  touch  it  with  my  hand! 
And,  reaching  up  my  hand  to  try, 
I  screamed  to  feel  it  touch  the  sky. 

I  screamed,  and  —  lo!  —  Infinity 

Came  down  and  settled  over  me; 

And,  pressing  of  the  Undefined 

The  definition  on  my  mind, 

Held  up  before  my  eyes  a  glass 

Through  which  my  shrinking  sight  did  pass 

Until  it  seemed  I  must  behold 

Immensity  made  manifold; 

Whispered  to  me  a  word  whose  sound 

Deafened  the  air  for  worlds  around, 

And  brought  unmuffied  to  my  ears 

The  gossiping  of  friendly  spheres, 

The  creaking  of  the  tented  sky, 

The  ticking  of  Eternity. 


RENASCENCE  91 


I  saw  and  heard,  and  knew  at  last 

The  How  and  Why  of  all  things,  past, 

And  present,  and  forevermore. 

The  universe,  cleft  to  the  core, 

Lay  open  to  my  probing  sense 

That,  sick'ning,  I  would  fain  pluck  thence 

But  could  not,  —  nay!  But  needs  must  suck 

At  the  great  wound,  and  could  not  pluck 

My  lips  away  till  I  had  drawn 

All  venom  out.  —  Ah,  fearful  pawn! 

For  my  omniscience  paid  I  toll 

In  infinite  remorse  of  soul. 

All  sin  was  of  my  sinning,  all 

Atoning  mine,  and  mine  the  gall 

Of  all  regret.  Mine  was  the  weight 

Of  every  brooded  wrong,  the  hate 

That  stood  behind  each  envious  thrust, 

Mine  every  greed,  mine  every  lust. 

And  all  the  while  for  every  grief, 

Each  suffering,  I  craved  relief 

With  individual  desire,  — 

Craved  all  in  vain !  And  felt  fierce  fire 

About  a  thousand  people  crawl; 

Perished  with  each,  —  then  mourned  for  all! 

A  man  was  starving  in  Capri; 

He  moved  his  eyes  and  looked  at  me; 

I  felt  his  gaze,  I  heard  his  moan, 

And  knew  his  hunger  as  my  own. 

I  saw  at  sea  a  great  fog-bank 

Between  two  ships  that  struck  and  sank; 

A  thousand  screams  the  heavens  smote: 

And  every  scream  tore  through  my  throat. 

No  hurt  I  did  not  feel,  no  death 


RENASCENCE 


That  was  not  mine;  mine  each  last  breath 
That,  crying,  met  an  answering  cry 
From  the  compassion  that  was  I. 
All  suffering  mine,  and  mine  its  rod; 
Mine,  pity  like  the  pity  of  God. 
Ah,  awful  weight!  Infinity 
Pressed  down  upon  the  finite  Mei 
My  anguished  spirit,  like  a  bird, 
Beating  against  my  lips  I  heard' 
Yet  lay  the  weight  so  close  about 
There  was  no  room  for  it  without. 
And  so  beneath  the  Weight  lay  I 
And  suffered  death,  but  could  not  die. 

Long  had  I  lain  thus,  craving  death, 
When  quietly  the  earth  beneath 
Gave  way,  and  inch  by  inch,  so  great 
At  last  had  grown  the  crushing  weight, 
Into  the  earth  I  sank  till  I 
Full  six  feet  under  ground  did  lie, 
And  sank  no  more,  —  there  is  no  weight 
Can  follow  here,  however  great. 
From  off  my  breast  I  felt  it  roll, 
And  as  it  went  my  tortured  soul 
Burst  forth  and  fled  in  such  a  gust 
That  all  about  me  swirled  the  dust. 

Deep  in  the  earth  I  rested  now; 
Cool  is  its  hand  upon  the  brow 
And  soft  its  breast  beneath  the  head 
Of  one  who  is  so  gladly  dead. 
And  all  at  once,  and  over  all, 
The  pitying  rain  began  to  fall: 


RENASCENCE 93 

I  lay  and  heard  each  pattering  hoof 
Upon  my  lowly,  thatched  roof, 
And  seemed  to  love  the  sound  far  more 
Than  ever  I  had  done  before. 
For  rain  it  hath  a  friendly  sound 
To  one  who 's  six  feet  underground ; 
And  scarce  the  friendly  voice  or  face: 
A  grave  is  such  a  quiet  place. 

The  rain,  I  said,  is  kind  to  come 
And  speak  to  me  in  my  new  home. 
I  would  I  were  alive  again 
To  kiss  the  fingers  of  the  rain, 
To  drink  into  my  eyes  the  shine 
Of  every  slanting  silver  line, 
To  catch  the  freshened,  fragrant  breeze 
From  drenched  and  dripping  apple-trees0 
For  soon  the  shower  will  be  done, 
And  then  the  broad  face  of  the  sun 
Will  laugh  above  the  rain-soaked  earth 
Until  the  world  with  answering  mirth 
Shakes  joyously,  and  each  round  drop 
Rolls,  twinkling,  from  its  grass-blade  top0 
How  can  I  bear  it;  buried  here, 
While  overhead  the  sky  grows  clear 
And  blue  again  after  the  storm? 
O,  multi-colored,  multiform, 
Beloved  beauty  over  me, 
That  I  shall  never,  never  see 
Again!  Spring-silver,  autumn-gold, 
That  I  shall  never  more  behold ! 
Sleeping  your  myriad  magics  through,, 
Close-sepulchred  away  from  you! 


94  RENASCENCE 


0  God,  I  cried,  give  ine  new  birth, 
And  put  me  back  upon  the  earth ! 
Upset  each  cloud's  gigantic  gourd 
And  let  the  heavy  rain,  down-poured 
In  one  big  torrent,  set  me  free, 
Washing  my  grave  away  from  me! 

1  ceased ;  and,  through  the  breathless  hush 
That  answered  me,  the  far-off  rush 

Of  herald  wings  came  whispering 
Like  music  down  the  vibrant  string 
Of  my  ascending  prayer,  and  —  crash! 
Before  the  wild  wind's  whistling  lash 
The  startled  storm-clouds  reared  on  high 
And  plunged  in  terror  down  the  sky, 
And  the  big  rain  in  one  black  wave 
Fell  from  the  sky  and  struck  my  grave. 

I  know  not  how  such  things  can  be 
I  only  know  there  came  to  me 
A  fragrance  such  as  never  clings 
To  aught  save  happy  living  things; 
A  sound  as  of  some  joyous  elf 
Singing  sweet  songs  to  please  himself, 
And,  through  and  over  everything, 
A  sense  of  glad  awakening. 
The  grass,  a-tiptoe  at  my  ear, 
Whispering  to  me  I  could  hear; 
I  felt  the  rain's  cool  finger-tips 
Brushed  tenderly  across  my  lips, 
Laid  gently  on  my  sealed  sight, 
And  all  at  once  the  heavy  night 
Fell  from  my  eyes  and  I  could  see,  — 


RENASCENCE  95 

A  drenched  and  dripping  apple-tree, 
A  last  long  line  of  silver  rain, 
A  sky  grown  clear  and  blue  again. 
And  as  I  looked  a  quickening  gust 
Of  wind  blew  up  to  me  and  thrust 
Into  my  face  a  miracle 
Of  orchard-breath,  and  with  the  smell,  — 
I  know  not  how  such  things  can  be!  — 
I  breathed  my  soul  back  into  me. 
Ah!  Up  then  from  the  ground  sprang  I 
And  hailed  the  earth  with  such  a  cry 
As  is  not  heard  save  from  a  man 
Who  has  been  dead,  and  lives  again. 
About  the  trees  my  arms  I  wound; 
Like  one  gone  mad  I  hugged  the  ground; 
I  raised  my  quivering  arms  on  high; 
I  laughed  and  laughed  into  the  sky, 
Till  at  my  throat  a  strangling  sob 
Caught  fiercely,  and  a  great  heart-throb 
Sent  instant  tears  into  my  eyes; 

0  God,  I  cried,  no  dark  disguise 
Can  e'er  hereafter  hide  from  me 
Thy  radiant  identity ! 

Thou  canst  not  move  across  the  grass 
But  my  quick  eyes  will  see  Thee  pass, 
Nor  speak,  however  silently, 
But  my  hushed  voice  will  answer  Thee0 

1  know  the  path  that  tells  Thy  way 
Through  the  cool  eve  of  every  day; 
God,  I  can  push  the  grass  apart 
And  lay  my  finger  on  Thy  heart! 

The  world  stands  out  on  either  side 
No  wider  than  the  heart  is  wide; 


96  SOULS 


Above  the  world  is  stretched  the  sky,  — 
No  higher  than  the  soul  is  high. 
The  heart  can  push  the  sea  and  land 
Farther  away  on  either  hand; 
The  soul  can  split  the  sky  in  two, 
And  let  the  face  of  God  shine  through. 
But  East  and  West  will  pinch  the  heart 
That  cannot  keep  them  pushed  apart; 
And  he  whose  soul  is  flat  —  the  sky 
Will  cave  in  on  him  by  and  by. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay, 

SOULS 

MY  Soul  goes  clad  in  gorgeous  things, 

Scarlet  and  gold  and  blue; 
And  at  her  shoulder  sudden  wings 

Like  long  flames  flicker  through. 

And  she  is  swallow-fleet,  and  free 

From  mortal  bonds  and  bars. 
She  laughs,  because  Eternity 

Blossoms  for  her  with  stars! 

O  folk  who  scorn  my  stiff  gray  gown, 

My  dull  and  foolish  face,  — 
Can  ye  not  see  my  Soul  flash  down, 

A  singing  flame  through  space? 

And  folk,  whose  earth-stained  looks  I  hate,, 

Why  may  I  not  divine 
Your  Souls,  that  must  be  passionate, 

Shining  and  swift,  as  mine! 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis. 


__ THE   DREAMER  97 

FIAT  LUX 

THEN  that  dread  angel  near  the  awful  throne, 
Leaving  the  seraphs  ranged  in  flaming  tiers, 
Winged  his  dark  way  through  those  unpinioned 
spheres, 

And  on  the  void's  black  beetling  edge,  alone, 

Stood  with  raised  wings,  and  listened  for  the  tone 
Of  God's  command  to  reach  his  eager  ears, 
While  Chaos  wavered,  for  she  felt  her  years 

Unsceptered  now  in  that  convulsive  zone. 

Night  trembled.  And  as  one  hath  oft  beheld 
A  lamp  within  a  vase  light  up  its  gloom, 
So  God's  voice  lighted  him,  from  heel  to  plume: 

"Let  there  be  light!"   It  said,  and  Darkness,  quelled, 
Shrunk  noiseless  backward  in  her  monstrous  womb 

Through  vasts  unwinnowed  by  the  wings  of  eld ! 

Lloyd  Mifflin. 

THE  DREAMER 

"  Why  do  you  seek  the  sun, 
In  your  Bubble-Crown  ascending  ? 
Your  chariot  will  melt  to  mist, 
Your  crown  will  have  an  ending" 

"Nay,  sun  is  but  a  Bubble, 
Earth  is  a  whiff  of  Foam  — 
To  my  caves  on  the  coast  of  Thule 
Each  night  I  call  them  home. 
Thence  Faiths  blow  forth  to  angels 
And  Loves  blow  forth  to  men  — 
They  break  and  turn  to  nothing 
And  I  make  them  whole  again: 


98    A  CARAVAN  FROM  CHINA  COMES 

On  the  crested  waves  of  chaos 
I  ride  them  back  reborn : 
New  stars  I  bring  at  evening 
For  those  that  burst  at  morn : 
My  soul  is  the  wind  of  Thule 
And  evening  is  the  sign, 
The  sun  is  but  a  Bubble, 
A  fragile  child  of  mine." 

Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay, 


A  CARAVAN  FROM  CHINA  COMES 

(After  Hafiz) 

A  CARAVAN  from  China  comes; 

For  miles  it  sweetens  all  the  air 
With  fragrant  silks  and  dreaming  gums, 

Attar  and  myrrh  — 
A  caravan  from  China  comes. 

O  merchant,  tell  me  what  you  bring, 
With  music  sweet  of  camel  bells; 

How  long  have  you  been  travelling 
With  these  sweet  smells? 

O  merchant,  tell  me  what  you  bring. 

A  lovely  lady  is  my  freight, 
A  lock  escaped  of  her  long  hair,  — 

That  is  this  perfume  delicate 
That  fills  the  air  — 

A  lovely  lady  is  my  freight. 

Her  face  is  from  another  land, 
I  think  she  is  no  mortal  maid9  — « , 


AS  I  CAME  DOWN  FROM  LEBANON    99 

Her  beauty,  like  some  ghostly  hand, 

Makes  me  afraid; 
Her  face  is  from  another  land. 

The  little  moon  my  cargo  is, 

About  her  neck  the  Pleiades 
Clasp  hands  and  sing;  Hafiz,  't  is  this 

Perfumes  the  breeze  — 
The  little  moon  my  cargo  is. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

AS   I   CAME   DOWN   FROM   LEBANON 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 

Came  winding,  wandering  slowly  down 

Through  mountain  passes  bleak  and  brown? 

The  cloudless  day  was  well-nigh  done. 

The  city,  like  an  opal  set 

In  emerald,  showed  each  minaret 

Afire  with  radiant  beams  of  sun, 

And  glistened  orange,  fig,  and  lime, 

Where  song-birds  made  melodious  chime, 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
Like  lava  in  the  dying  glow, 
Through  olive  orchards  far  below 
I  saw  the  murmuring  river  run; 
And  '.neath  the  wall  upon  the  sand 
Swart  sheiks  from  distant  Samarcand, 
With  precious  spices  they  had  won, 
Lay  long  and  languidly  in  wait 
Till  they  might  pass  the  guarded  gate, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 


100  THE  ONLY  WAY 


As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
I  saw  strange  men  from  lands  afar, 
In  mosque  and  square  and  gay  bazar., 
The  Magi  that  the  Moslem  shun, 
And  grave  Effendi  from  Stamboul, 
Who  sherbet  sipped  in  corners  cool; 
And,  from  the  balconies  o'errun 
Writh  roses,  gleamed  the  eyes  of  those 
Who  dwell  in  still  seraglios, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
The  naming  flower  of  daytime  died, 
And  Night,  arrayed  as  is  a  bride 
Of  some  great  king,  in  garments  spun 
Of  purple  and  the  finest  gold, 
Outbloomed  in  glories  manifold, 
Until  the  moon,  above  the  dun 
And  darkening  desert,  void  of  shade, 
Shone  like  a  keen  Damascus  blade, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

Clinton  Scollardi 

THE  ONLY  WAY 

i 

MEMPHIS  and  Karnak,  Luxor,  Thebes,  the  Nile: 
Of  these  your  letters  told ;  and  I  who  read 
Saw  loom  on  dim  horizons  Egypt's  dead 

In  march  across  the  desert,  mile  on  mile, 

A  ghostly  caravan  in  slow  defile 

Between  the  sand  and  stars;  and  at  their  head 
From  unmapped  darkness  into  darkness  fled 

The  gods  that  Egypt  feared  a  little  while. 


THE  ONLY  WAY  101 

There  black  against  the  night  I  saw  them  loom 
With  captive  kings  and  armies  in  array 

Remembered  only  by  their  scupltured  doom, 
And  thought:  What  Egypt  was  are  we  to-day. 

Then  rose  obscure  against  the  rearward  gloom 
The  march  of  Empires  yet  to  pass  away. 

II 

I  looked  in  vision  down  the  centuries 

And  saw  how  Athens  stood  a  sunlit  while 
A  sovereign  city  free  from  greed  and  guile, 

The  half-embodied  dream  of  Pericles. 

Then  saw  I  one  of  smooth  words,  swift  to  please, 
At  laggard  virtue  mock  with  shrug  and  smile; 
With  Cleon's  creed  rang  court  and  peristyle, 

Then  sank  the  sun  in  far  Sicilian  seas. 

From  brows  ignoble  fell  the  violet  crown. 
Again  the  warning  sounds;  the  hosts  engage: 
In  Cleon's  face  we  fling  our  battle  gage, 

We  win  as  foes  of  Cleon  loud  renown; 

But  while  we  think  to  build  the  coming  age 

The  laurel  on  our  brows  is  turning  brown. 

in 
We  top  the  poisonous  blooms  that  choke  the  state9 

At  flower  and  fruit  our  flashing  strokes  are  made, 

The  whetted  scythe  on  stalk  and  stem  is  laid. 
But  deeper  must  we  strike  to  extirpate 
The  rooted  evil  that  within  our  gate 

Will  sprout  again  and  flourish,  branch  and  blade? 

For  only  from  within  can  ill  be  stayed 
While  Adam's  seed  is  unregenerate. 


102          THE  DUST  DETHRONED 

With  zeal  redoubled  let  our  strength  be  strained 
To  cut  the  rooted  causes  where  they  hold, 
Nor  spend  our  sinews  on  the  fungus  mold 

When  all  the  breeding  marshes  must  be  drained. 
Be  this  our  aim;  and  let  our  youth  be  trained 
To  honor  virtue  more  than  place  and  gold. 

IV 

A  hundred  cities  sapped  by  slow  decay, 
A  hundred  codes  and  systems  proven  vain 
Lie  hearsed  in  sand  upon  the  heaving  plain, 

Memorial  ruins  mounded,  still  and  gray; 

And  we  who  plod  the  barren  waste  to-day 
Another  code  evolving,  think  to  gain 
Surcease  of  man's  inheritance  of  pain 

And  mold  a  state  immune  from  evil's  sway. 

Not  laws;  but  virtue  in  the  soul  we  need, 
The  old  Socratic  justice  in  the  heart, 

The  golden  rule  become  the  people's  creed 

When  years  of  training  have  performed  their  part 
For  thus  alone  in  home  and  church  and  mart 

Can  evil  perish  and  the  race  be  freed. 

Louis  V.  Ledoux. 


THE  DUST  DETHRONED 

SARGON  is  dust,  Semiramis  a  clod ! 

In  crypts  profaned  the  moon  at  midnight  peers? 

The  owl  upon  the  Sphinx  hoots  in  her  ears, 
And  scant  and  sear  the  desert  grasses  nod 
Where  once  the  armies  of  Assyria  trod, 


KINCHINJUNGA  103 


With  younger  sunlight  splendid  on  the  spears; 
The  lichens  cling  the  closer  with  the  years, 
And  seal  the  eyelids  of  the  weary  god. 

Where  high  the  tombs  of  royal  Egypt  heave, 
The  vulture  shadows  with  arrested  wings 
The  indecipherable  boast  of  kings, 

As  Arab  children  hear  their  mother's  cry 

And  leave  in  mockery  their  toy  —  they  leave 

The  skull  of  Pharaoh  staring  at  the  sky. 

George  Sterling. 


KINCHINJUNGA 

(Which  is  the  next  highest  of  mountains) 

I 

0  WHITE  Priest  of  Eternity,  around 
Whose  lofty  summit  veiling  clouds  arise 
Of  the  earth's  immemorial  sacrifice 
To  Brahma  in  whose  breath  all  lives  and  dies; 
O  Hierarch  enrobed  in  timeless  snows, 
First-born  of  Asia  whose  maternal  throes 
Seem  changed  now  to  a  million  human  woes, 
Holy  thou  art  and  still!  Be  so,  nor  sound 
One  sigh  of  all  the  mystery  in  thee  found. 

II 

For  in  this  world  too  much  is  overclear, 
Immortal  Ministrant  to  many  lands, 
From  whose  ice-altars  flow  to  fainting  sands 
Rivers  that  each  libation  poured  expands. 


104  KINCHINJUNGA 

Too  much  is  known,  0  Ganges-giving  sire! 
Thy  people  fathom  life  and  find  it  dire, 
Thy  people  fathom  death,  and,  in  it,  fire 
To  live  again,  though  in  Illusion's  sphere, 
Behold  concealed  as  Grief  is  in  a  tear. 

Ill 

Wherefore  continue,  still  enshrined,  thy  rites, 
Though  dark  Thibet,  that  dread  ascetic,  falls 
In  strange  austerity,  whose  trance  appalls, 
Before  thee,  and  a  suppliant  on  thee  calls. 
Continue  still  thy  silence  high  and  sure, 
That  something  beyond  fleeting  may  endure  — 
Something  that  shall  forevermore  allure 
Imagination  on  to  mystic  flights 
Wherein  alone  no  wing  of  Evil  lights. 

IV 

Yea,  wrap  thy  awful  gulfs  and  acolytes 
Of  lifted  granite  round  with  reachless  snows. 
Stand  for  Eternity  while  pilgrim  rows 
Of  all  the  nations  envy  thy  repose. 
Ensheath  thy  swart  sublimities,  unsealed. 
Be  that  alone  on  earth  which  has  not  failed. 
Be  that  which  never  yet  has  yearned  or  ailed, 
But  since  primeval  Power  upreared  thy  heights 
Has  stood  above  all  deaths  and  all  delights. 

V 

And  though  thy  loftier  Brother  shall  be  King, 
High-priest  art  thou  to  Brahma  unrevealed, 
While  thy  white  sanctity  forever  sealed 


SCUM  O'  THE  EARTH  105 


In  icy  silence  leaves  desire  congealed. 

In  ghostly  ministrations  to  the  sun, 

And  to  the  mendicant  stars  and  the  moon-nun, 

Be  holy  still,  till  East  to  West  has  run, 

And  till  no  sacrificial  suffering 

On  any  shrine  is  left  to  tell  life's  sting. 

Cole  Young  Rice. 


"SCUM  O'  THE  EARTH'* 


Ai  the  gate  of  the  West  I  stand, 
On  the  isle  where  the  nations  throng. 
We  call  them  "scum  o'  the  earth"; 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong, 

Young  fellow  from  Socrates'  land?  — ~ 

You,  like  a  Hermes  so  lissome  and  strong 

Fresh  from  the  Master  Praxiteles'  hand? 

So  you're  of  Spartan  birth? 

Descended,  perhaps,  from  one  of  the  band  — 

Deathless  in  story  and  song  — 

Who  combed  their  long  hair  at  Thermopylse's 

Ah,  I  forget  the  straits,  alas! 

More  tragic  than  theirs,  more  compassion-worth, 

That  have  doomed  you  to  march  in  our  "immigrant 

class" 
Where  you  're  nothing  but  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

ii 

You  Pole  with  the  child  on  your  knee, 
What  dower  bring  you  to  the  land  of  the  free? 


106  SCUM  0'  THE  EARTH 

Hark!  does  she  croon 

That  sad  little  tune 

That  Chopin  once  found  on  his  Polish  lea 

And  mounted  in  gold  for  you  and  for  me? 

Now  a  ragged  young  fiddler  answers 

In  wild  Czech  melody 

That  Dvorak  took  whole  from  the  dancers. 

And  the  heavy  faces  bloom 

In  the  wonderful  Slavic  way; 

The  little,  dull  eyes,  the  brows  a-gloom, 

Suddenly  dawn  like  the  day. 

While,  watching  these  folk  and  their  mystery 3 

I  forget  that  they're  nothing  worth; 

That  Bohemians,  Slovaks,  Croatians, 

And  men  of  all  Slavic  nations 

Are  "polacks"  —  and  "scum  o'  tfee  earth." 


in 

Genoese  boy  of  the  level  brow, 
Lad  of  the  lustrous,  dreamy  eyes 
A-stare  at  Manhattan's  pinnacles  now 
In  the  first  sweet  shock  of  a  hushed  surprise? 
Within  your  far-rapt  seer's  eyes 
I  catch  the  glow  of  the  wild  surmise 
That  played  on  the  Santa  Maria's  prow 
In  that  still  gray  dawn, 
Four  centuries  gone, 

When  a  world  from  the  wave  began  to  rise. 
Oh,  it's  bard  to  foretell  what  high  emprise 
Is  the  goal  that  gleams 
When  Italy's  dreams 
Spread  wing  and  sweep  into  the  skies. 


SCUM   O'   THE   EARTH  107 


Caesar  dreamed  him  a  world  ruled  well; 

Dante  dreamed  Heaven  out  of  Hell; 

Angelo  brought  us  there  to  dwell; 

And  you,  are  you  of  a  different  birth?  — 

You're  only  a  "dago,"  —  and  "scum  o'  the  earth"! 

IV 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong 

Calling  you  "scum  o'  the  earth," 

Man  of  the  sorrow-bowed  head, 

Of  the  features  tender  yet  strong,  — 

Man  of  the  eyes  full  of  wisdom  and  mystery 

Mingled  with  patience  and  dread? 

Have  not  I  known  you  in  history, 

Sorrow-bowed  head? 

Were  you  the  poet-king,  worth 

Treasures  of  Ophir  unpriced? 

Were  you  the  prophet,  perchance,  whose  art 

Foretold  how  the  rabble  would  mock 

That  shepherd  of  spirits,  erelong, 

Who  should  carry  the  lambs  on  his  heart 

And  tenderly  feed  his  flock? 

Man  —  lift  that  sorrow-bowed  head. 

Lo!  't  is  the  face  of  the  Christ! 

The  vision  dies  at  its  birth. 
You're  merely  a  butt  for  our  mirth. 
You're  a  "sheeny"  —  and  therefore  despised 
And  rejected  as  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

V 

Countrymen,  bend  and  invoke 
Mercy  for  us  blasphemers, 


108  DA  BOY  FROM  ROME 

~  • — _._....»<• 

For  that  we  spat  on  these  marvelous  folk, 

Nations  of  darers  and  dreamers, 

Scions  of  singers  and  seers, 

Our  peers,  and  more  than  our  peers. 

"Rabble  and  refuse/'  we  name  them 

And  "scum  o'  the  earth,"  to  shame  them. 

Mercy  for  us  of  the  few,  young  years, 

Of  the  culture  so  callow  and  crude, 

Of  the  hands  so  grasping  and  rude, 

The  lips  so  ready  for  sneers 

At  the  sons  of  our  ancient  more-than-peers. 

Mercy  for  us  who  dare  despise 

Men  in  whose  loins  our  Homer  lies; 

Mothers  of  men  who  shall  bring  to  us 

The  glory  of  Titian,  the  grandeur  of  Huss; 

Children  in  whose  frail  arms  shall  rest 

Prophets  and  singers  and  saints  of  the  West. 

Newcomers  all  from  the  eastern  seas, 
Help  us  incarnate  dreams  like  these. 
Forget,  and  forgive,  that  we  did  you  wrong. 
Help  us  to  father  a  nation,  strong 
In  the  comradeship  of  an  equal  birth, 
In  the  wealth  of  the  richest  bloods  of  earth. 

Robert  Haven  Schauffler. 


DA  BOY  FROM  ROME 

TO-DAY  ees  com'  from  Eetaly 

A  boy  ees  leeve  een  Rome, 
An'  he  ees  stop  an'  speak  weeth  me  — 

I  weesh  he  stay  at  home. 


DA  BOY  FROM  ROME 

He  stop  an'  say  "Hallo,"  to  me. 

An'  w'en  he  standin'  dere 
I  smal  da  smal  of  Eetaly 

Steell  steeckin'  een  hees  hair, 
Dat  com'  weeth  heem  across  da  sea, 

An'  een  da  clo'es  he  wear. 

Da  peopla  bomp  heem  een  da  street, 
Da  noise  ees  scare  heem,  too; 

He  ees  so  clumsy  een  da  feet 
He  don't  know  w'at  to  do, 

Dere  ees  so  many  theeng  he  meet 
Dat  ees  so  strange,  so  new. 

He  sheever  an'  he  ask  eef  here 

Eet  ees  so  always  cold. 
Den  een  hees  eye  ees  com'  H,  tear  — 

He  ees  no  vera  old  — 
An',  oh,  hees  voice  ees  soun*  so  quesf 

I  have  no  heart  for  scold. 

He  look  up  een  da  sky  so  gray, 

But  oh,  hees  eye  ees  be 
So  far  away,  so  far  away, 

An'  w'at  he  see  I  see. 
Da  sky  eet  ees  no  gray  to-day 

At  home  een  Eetaly. 

He  see  da  glada  peopla  sect 
Where  warma  shine  da  sky  — 

Oh,  while  he  eesa  look  at  eet 
He  ees  baygeen  to  cry. 

Eef  I  no  growl  an'  swear  a  beet 
So,  ioo,  my  fraud,  would  I. 


S10  THE  FUGITIVES 


Oh,  why  he  stop  an'  speak  weeth  me, 

Dees  boy  dat  leeve  een  Rome, 
An.'  com'  to-day  from  Eetaly? 

I  weesh  he  stay  at  home. 

Thomas  Augustine  Daly* 


THE  FUGITIVES 

WE  are  they  that  go,  that  go, 
Plunging  before  the  hidden  blow. 
We  run  the  byways  of  the  earth, 
For  we  are  fugitive  from  birth, 
Blindfolded,  with  wide  hands  abroad 
That  sow,  that  sow  the  sullen  sod. 

We  cannot  wait,  we  cannot  stop 
For  flushing  field  or  quickened  crop; 
The  orange  bow  of  dusky  dawn 
Glimmers  our  smoking  swath  upon; 
Blindfolded  still  we  hurry  on. 

How  we  do  know  the  ways  we  run 
That  are  blindfolded  from  the  sun? 
We  stagger  swiftly  to  the  call, 
Our  wide  hands  feeling  for  the  wall. 

Oh,  ye  who  climb  to  some  clear  heaven, 
By  grace  of  day  and  leisure  given, 
Pity  us,  fugitive  and  driven  — 
The  lithe  whip  curling  on  our  track, 
The  headlong  haste  that  looks  not  back! 

Florence  Wilkinson. 


SONG  OF  THE  UNSUCCESSFUL    1U 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  UNSUCCESSFUL 

WE  are  the  toilers  from  whom  God  barred 

The  gifts  that  are  good  to  hold. 
We  meant  full  well  and  we  tried  full  hard, 

And  our  failures  were  manifold. 

And  we  are  the  clan  of  those  whose  kin 
Were  a  millstone  dragging  them  down. 

Yea,  we  had  to  sweat  for  our  brother's  sin, 
And  lose  the  victor's  crown. 

The  seeming-able,  who  all  but  scored, 
From  their  teeming  tribe  we  come: 

What  was  there  wrong  with  us,  O  Lord, 
That  our  lives  were  dark  and  dumb? 

The  men  ten-talented,  who  still 

Strangely  missed  of  the  goal, 
Of  them  we  are:  it  seems  Thy  will 

To  harrow  some  in  soul. 

We  are  the  sinners,  too,  whose  lust 

Conquered  the  higher  claims, 
We  sat  us  prone  in  the  common  dust, 

And  played  at  the  devil's  games. 

We  are  the  hard-luck  folk,  who  strove 

Zealously,  but  in  vain; 
We  lost  and  lost,  while  our  comrades  throve, 

And  still  we  lost  again. 

We  are  the  doubles  of  those  whose  way 
Was  festal  with  fruits  and  flowers; 


112  THEY  WENT  FORTH  TO  BATTLED 

Body  and  brain  we  were  sound  as  they, 
But  the  prizes  were  not  ours. 

A  mighty  army  our  full  ranks  make, 

We  shake  the  graves  as  we  go; 
The  sudden  stroke  and  the  slow  heartbreak, 

They  both  have  brought  us  low. 

And  while  we  are  laying  life's  sword  aside, 

Spent  and  dishonored  and  sad, 
Our  epitaph  this,  when  once  we  have  died: 
"The  weak  lie  here,  and  the  bad." 

We  wonder  if  this  can  be  really  the  close, 

Life's  fever  cooled  by  death's  trance; 
And  we  cry,  though  it  seem  to  our  dearest  of  foes, 
"God,  give  us  another  chance!" 

Richard  Burton. 


THEY   WENT  FORTH   TO   BATTLE,   BUT 
THEY  ALWAYS  FELL 

THEY  went  forth  to  battle,  but  they  always  fell; 
Their  eyes  were  fixed  above  the  sullen  shields; 
Nobly  they  fought  and  bravely,  but  not  well, 
And  sank  heart-wounded  by  a  subtle  spell. 
They  knew  not  fear  that  to  the  foeman  yields, 
They  were  not  weak,  as  one  who  vainly  wields 
A  futile  weapon;  yet  the  sad  scrolls  tell 
How  on  the  hard-fought  field  they  always  fell. 

It  was  a  secret  music  that  they  heard, 
A  sad  sweet  plea  for  pity  and  for  peace; 


THE  EAGLE  THAT  IS  FORGOTTEN  113 

And  that  which  pierced  the  heart  was  but  a  word, 
Though  the  white  breast  was  red-lipped  where  the  sword 
Pressed  a  fierce  cruel  kiss,  to  put  surcease 
On  its  hot  thirst,  but  drank  a  hot  increase. 
Ah,  they  by  some  strange  troubling  doubt  were  stirred, 
And  died  for  hearing  what  no  foeman  heard. 

They  went  forth  to  battle  but  they  always  fell; 

Their  might  was  not  the  might  of  lifted  spears; 
Over  the  battle-clamor  came  a  spell 
Of  troubling  music,  and  they  fought  not  well. 

Their  wreaths  are  willows  and  their  tribute,  tears; 

Their  names  are  old  sad  stories  in  men's  ears; 
Yet  they  will  scatter  the  red  hordes  of  Hell, 
Who  went  to  battle  forth  and  always  fell. 

Shaemaa  0  Sheet. 

THE  EAGLE  THAT  IS  FORGOTTEN 

(John  P.  Altgeld} 

SLEEP  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay  has  its 

own. 
"We  have  buried  him  now,"  thought  your  foes,  and  in 

secret  rejoiced. 
They  made  a  brave  show  of  their  mourning,  their 

hatred  unvoiced. 
They  had  snarled  at  you,  barked  at  you,  foamed  at  you, 

day  after  day. 
Now  you  were  ended.  They  praised  you  .  .  .  and  laid 

you  away. 
The  others,  that  mourned  you  in  silence  and  terror  and 

truth, 


114  A  MEMORIAL  TABLET 

The  widow  bereft  of  her  crust,  and  the  boy  without 

youth, 
The  mocked  and  the  scorned  and  the  wounded,  the 

lame  and  the  poor, 
That  should  have  remembered  forever,  .  .  .  remember 

no  more. 
Where  are  those  lovers  of  yours,  on  what  name  do  they 

call, 

The  lost,  that  in  armies  wept  over  your  funeral  pall? 
They  call  on  the  names  of  a  hundred  high-valiant 

ones, 
A  hundred  white  eagles  have  risen,  the  sons  of  your 

sons. 
The  zeal  in  their  wings  is  a  zeal  that  your  dreaming 

began, 

The  valor  that  wore  out  your  soul  in  the  service  of  man. 
Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  tta  stone. 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay  has  its 

own. 
Sleep  on,  O  brave-hearted,  O  wise  man  tkat  kindled 

the  flame  — 

To  live  in  mankind  is  far  more  than  to  live  in  a  name, 
To  live  in  mankind,  far,  far  more  than  to  live  in  a 


name 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay. 


A  MEMORIAL  TABLET 

Oh,  Agathodes,  fare  thee  welll 

NAKED  and  brave  thou  goest 
Without  one  glance  behind ! 

Hast  thou  no  fear,  Agathocles, 
Or  backward  grief  of  mind? 


A   MEMORIAL  TABLET  115 

The  dreamy  dog  beside  thee 

Presses  against  thy  knee; 
He,  too,  oh,  sweet  Agathocles, 

Is  deaf  and  visioned  like  thee. 

Thou  art  so  lithe  and  lovely 

And  yet  thou  art  not  ours. 
What  Delphic  saying  compels  thee 

Of  kings  or  topless  towers? 

That  little  blowing  mantle 

Thou  losest  from  thine  arm  — 
No  shoon  nor  staff,  Agathocles, 

Nor  sword,  to  fend  from  harm! 

Thou  hast  the  changed  impersonal 

Awed  brow  of  mystery  — 
Yesterday  thou  wast  burning, 

Mad  boy,  for  Glaucoe. 

Philis  thy  mother  calls  thee: 

Mine  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
Turn  once,  look  once,  Agathocles  — 

(The  gods  have  blinded  him.) 

Come  back,  Agathocles,  the  night  — 
Brings  thee  what  place  of  rest? 

Wine-sweet  are  Glaucoe's  kisses, 
Flower-soft  her  budding  breast. 

He  seems  to  hearken,  Glaucoe, 

He  seems  to  listen  and  smile; 
(Nay,  Philis>  but  a  god-song 

He  follows  this  many  a  mile.) 


316        THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE 

Come  back,  come  back,  Agathocles! 

(He  scents  the  asphodel; 
Unearthly  swift  he  runneth.) 

Agathocles,  farewell! 

Florence  Wilkinson. 

TO-DAY 

VOICE,  with  what  emulous  fire  thou  singest  free  hearts 

of  old  fashion, 

English  scorners  of  Spain,  sweeping  the  blue  sea-way, 
Sing  me  the  daring  of  life  for  life,  the  magnanimous 

passion 
Of  man  for  man  in  the  mean  populous  streets  of 

To-day ! 

Hand,  with  what  color  and  power  thou  couldst  show, 

in  the  ring  hot-sanded, 

Brown  Bestiarius  holding  the  lean  tawn  tiger  at  bay, 
Paint  me  the  wrestle  of  Toil  with  the  wild-beast  Want, 

bare-handed ; 
Shadow  me  forth  a  soul  steadily  facing  To-day! 

Helen  Gray  Cone. 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE 

(Written  after  seeing  Millet's  world-famous  painting) 

BOWED  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 


THE  MAN  WITH   THE   HOE        117 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 

Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 

Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 

And  marked  their  ways  upon  the  ancient  deep? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 

More   tongued   with   censure   of   the   world's   blind 

greed  — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul  — 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 
Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 
Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed;* 
Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 


118  EXORDIUM 


Touch  it  again  with  immortality; 
Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 
Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 
Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 
Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings  — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is  — 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

Edwin  Markham. 


EXORDIUM 

SPEAK!  said  my  soul,  be  stern  and  adequate; 
The  sunset  falls  from  Heaven,  the  year  is  late, 
Love  waits  with  fallen  tresses  at  thy  gate 

And  mourns  for  perished  days. 
Speak!  in  the  rigor  of  thy  fate  and  mine, 
Ere  these  scant,  dying  days,  bright-lipped  with  wine, 
All  one  by  one  depart,  resigned,  divine, 

Through  desert,  autumn  ways. 

Speak!  thou  art  lonety  in  thy  chilly  mind, 
With  all  this  desperate  solitude  of  wind, 
The  solitude  of  tears  that  make  thee  blind, 

Of  wild  and  causeless  tears. 

3peak!  thou  hast  need  of  me,  heart,  hand  and  head, 
Speak,  if  it  be  an  echo  of  thy  dread, 


THE  FROZEN  GRAIL  119 

A  dirge  of  hope,  of  young  illusions  dead  — 
Perchance  God  hears! 

George  Cabot  Lodge. 


THE  FROZEN  GRAIL 

(To  Peary  and  his  men,  before  the  last  expedition) 

WHY  sing  the  legends  of  the  Holy  Grail, 

The  dead  crusaders  of  the  Sepulchre, 

While  these  men  live?  Are  the  great  bards  all  dumb? 

Here  is  a  vision  to  shake  the  blood  of  Song, 

And  make  Fame's  watchman  tremble  at  his  post. 

What  shall  prevail  against  the  spirit  of  man, 

When  cold,  the  lean  and  snarling  wolf  of  hunger, 

The  threatening  spear  of  ice-mailed  Solitude, 

Silence,  and  space,  and  ghostly-footed  Fear 

Prevail  not?   Dante,  in  his  frozen  hell 

Shivering,  endured  no  bleakness  like  the  void 

These  men  have  warmed  with  their  own  flaming  will, 

And  peopled  with  their  dreams.  The  wind  from  fierce 

Arcturus  in  their  faces,  at  their  backs 

The  whip  of  the  world's  doubt,  and  in  their  souls 

Courage  to  die  —  if  death  shall  be  the  price 

Of  that  cold  cup  that  will  assuage  their  thirst; 

They  climb,  and  fall,  and  stagger  toward  the  goal. 

They  lay  themselves  the  road  whereby  they  travel, 

And  sue  God  for  a  franchise.  Does  He  watch 

Behind  the  lattice  of  the  boreal  lights? 

In  that  grail-chapel  of  their  stern-vowed  quest, 

Ninety  of  God's  long  paces  toward  the  North, 

Will  they  befeokl  the  splendor  of  Hb  face? 


120 THE  FROZEN   GRAIL 

To  conquer  the  world  must  man  renounce  the  world? 

These  have  renounced  it.  Had  ye  only  faith 

Ye  might  move  mountains,  said  the  Nazarene. 

Why,  these  have  faith  to  move  the  zones  of  man 

Out  to  the  point  where  All  and  Nothing  meet. 

They  catch  the  bit  of  Death  between  their  teeth, 

In  one  wild  dash  to  trample  the  unknown 

And  leap  the  gates  of  knowledge.   They  have  dared 

Even  to  defy  the  sentinel  that  guards 

The  doors  of  the  forbidden  —  dared  to  hurl 

Their  breathing  bodies  after  the  Ideal, 

That  like  the  heavenly  kingdom  must  be  taken 

Only  by  violence.   The  star  that  leads 

The  leader  of  this  quest  has  held  the  world 

True  to  its  orbit  for  a  million  years. 

And  shall  he  fail?  They  never  fail  who  light 

Their  lamp  of  faith  at  the  unwavering  flame 

Burnt  for  the  altar  service  of  the  Race 

Since  the  beginning.   He  shall  find  the  strange  — 

The  white  immaculate  Virgin  of  the  North, 

Whose  steady  gaze  no  mortal  ever  dared, 

Whose  icy  hand  no  human  ever  grasped. 

In  the  dread  silence  and  the  solitude 

She  waits  and  listens  through  the  centuries 

For  one  indomitable,  destined  soul, 

Born  to  endure  the  glory  of  her  eyes, 

And  lift  his  warm  lips  to  the  frozen  Grail. 

Elsa  Barker* 


THE  UNCONQUERED  AIR          121 


THE  UNCONQUERED  AIR 


OTHERS  endure  Man's  rule:  he  therefore  deems 
I  shall  endure  it  —  I,  the  unconquered  Air! 
Imagines  this  triumphant  strength  may  benr 

His  paltry  sway!  yea,  ignorantly  dreams, 

Because  proud  Rhea  now  his  vassal  seems, 
And  Neptune  him  obeys  in  billowy  lair, 
That  he  a  more  sublime  assault  may  dare, 

Where  blown  by  tempest  wild  the  vulture  screamaS 

Presumptuous,  he  mounts:  I  toss  his  bones 
Back  from  the  height  supernal  he  has  braved: 

Ay,  as  his  vessel  nears  my  perilous  zones, 

I  blow  the  cockle-shell  away  like  chaff 
And  give  him  to  the  Sea  he  has  enslaved. 

He  founders  in  its  depths;  and  then  I  laugh! 


II 

Impregnable  I  held  myself,  secure 

Against  intrusion.   Who  can  measure  Man? 
How  should  I  guess  his  mortal  will  outran 

Defeat  so  far  that  danger  could  allure 

For  its  own  sake?  —  that  he  would  all  endure, 
All  sacrifice,  all  suffer,  rather  than 
Forego  the  daring  dreams  Olympian 

That  prophesy  to  him  of  victory  sure? 

Ah,  tameless  courage!  —  dominating  power 
That,  all  attempting,  in  a  deathless  hour 

Made  earth-born  Titans  godlike,  in  revolt!  — 


122      TO  A  NEW  YORK  SHOP-GIRL 

Fear  is  the  fire  that  melts  Icarian  wings : 
Who  fears  nor  Fate,  nor  Time,  nor  what  Time  brings, 
May  drive  Apollo's  steeds,  or  wield  the  thunderbolt! 
Florence  Earle  Coates. 


THE  HAPPIEST  HEART 

WHO  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 

Shall  lord  it  but  a  day; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done, 

And  kept  the  humble  way. 

The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame, 

The  dust  will  hide  the  crown; 
Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 

Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 

The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Was  in  some  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet, 

And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest. 

John  Vance  Cheney. 


TO  A  NEW  YORK  SHOP-GIRL  DRESSED  FOR 
SUNDAY 

TO-DAY  I  saw  the  shop-girl  go 

Down  gay  Broadway  to  meet  her  beau. 

Conspicuous,  splendid,  conscious,  sweet, 
She  spread  abroad  arid  took  the  street. 


TO   A   NEW   YORK   SHOP-GIRL      123 

And  all  that  niceness  would  forbid, 
Superb,  she  smiled  upon  and  did. 

Let  other  girls,  whose  happier  days 
Preserve  the  perfume  of  their  ways, 

Go  modestly.  The  passing  hour 
Adds  splendor  to  their  opening  flower. 

But  from  this  child  too  swift  a  doom 
Must  steal  her  prettiness  and  bloom, 

Toil  and  weariness  hide  the  grace 
That  pleads  a  moment  from  her  face. 

So  blame  her  not  if  for  a  day 

She  flaunts  her  glories  while  she  may. 

She  half  perceives,  half  understands, 
Snatching  her  gifts  with  both  her  hands. 

The  little  strut  beneath  the  skirt 
That  lags  neglected  in  the  dirt, 

The  indolent  swagger  down  the  street  — 
Who  can  condemn  such  happy  feeti 

Innocent!  vulgar  —  that's  the  truth! 
Yet  with  the  darling  wiles  of  youth! 

The  bright,  self-conscious  eyes  that  stare 
With  such  hauteur,  beneath  such  hair! 
Perhaps  the  men  will  find  me  fair! 


124     TO   A   NEW  YORK   SHOP-GIRL 

Charming  and  charmed,  flippant,  arrayed, 
Fluttered  and  foolish,  proud,  displayed, 
Infinite  pathos  of  parade! 

The  bangles  and  the  narrowed  waist  — 
The  tinsled  boa  —  forgive  the  taste! 
Oh,  the  starved  nights  she  gave  for  that, 
And  bartered  bread  to  buy  her  hat! 

She  flows  before  the  reproachful  sage 
And  begs  her  woman's  heritage. 

Dear  child,  with  the  defiant  eyes, 
Insolent  with  the  half  surmise 
We  do  not  quite  admire,  I  know 
How  foresight  frowns  on  this  vain  show! 

And  judgment,  wearily  sad,  may  see 
No  grace  in  such  frivolity. 

Yet  which  of  us  was  ever  bold 

To  worship  Beauty,  hungry  and  cold! 

Scorn  famine  down,  proudly  expressed 
Apostle  to  what  things  are  best. 

Let  him  who  starves  to  buy  the  food 
For  his  soul's  comfort  find  her  good, 

Nor  chide  the  frills  and  furbelows 
That  are  the  prettiest  things  she  knows. 

Poet  and  prophet  in  God's  eyes 
Make  no  more  perfect  sacrifice. 


A  FAUN  IN  WALL  STREET         125 

Who  knows  before  what  inner  shrine 
She  eats  with  them  the  bread  and  wine? 

Poor  waif!  One  of  the  sacred  few 
That  madly  sought  the  best  they  knew! 

Dear  —  let  me  lean  my  cheek  to-night 
Close,  close  to  yours.  Ah,  that  is  right. 

How  warm  and  near!  At  last  I  see 
One  beauty  shines  for  thee  and  me. 

So  let  us  love  and  understand  — 
Whose  hearts  are  hidden  in  God's  hand. 

And  we  will  cherish  your  brief  Spring 
And  all  its  fragile  flowering. 

God  loves  all  prettiness,  and  on  this 
Surely  his  angels  lay  their  kiss. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch. 


A  FAUN  IN  WALL  STREET 

WHAT  shape  so  furtive  steals  along  the  dim 

Bleak  street,  barren  of  throngs,  this  day  of  June; 

This  day  of  rest,  when  all  the  roses  swoon 
In  Attic  vales  where  dryads  wait  for  him? 
What  sylvan  this,  and  what  the  stranger  whim 

That  lured  him  here  this  golden  afternoon; 

Ways  where  the  dusk  has  fallen  oversoon 
In  the  deep  canyon,  torrentless  and  grim? 


126  THE  MYSTIC 


Great  Pan  is  far,  O  mad  estray,  and  these 

Bare  walls  that  leap  to  heaven  and  hide  the  skies 

Are  fanes  men  rear  to  other  deities; 

Far  to  the  east  the  haunted  woodland  lies, 

And  cloudless  still,  from  cyclad-dotted  seas, 
Hymettus  and  the  hills  of  Hellas  rise. 

John  Myers  O'Hara. 


THE  MYSTIC 

BY  seven  vineyards  on  one  hill 

We  walked.  The  native  wine 
In  clusters  grew  beside  us  two, 

For  your  lips  and  for  mine, 

When,  "Hark!"  you  said,  —  "Was  that  a  bell 
Or  a  bubbling  spring  we  heard?" 

But  I  was  wise  and  closed  my  eyes 
And  listened  to  a  bird; 

For  as  summer  leaves  are  bent  and  shake 

With  singers  passing  through, 
So  moves  in  me  continually 

The  winged  breath  of  you. 

You  tasted  from  a  single  vine 

And  took  from  that  your  fill  — 
But  I  inclined  to  every  kind, 

All  seven  on  one  hill. 

Witter  Bynner0 


THE  CLOUD 


THE  CLOUD 

THE  islands  called  me  far  away, 
The  valleys  called  me  home. 

The  rivers  with  a  silver  voice 
Drew  on  my  heart  to  come. 

The  paths  reached  tendrils  to  my  hair 

From  every  vine  and  tree. 
There  was  no  refuge  anywhere 

Until  I  came  to  thee. 

There  is  a  northern  cloud  I  know, 

Along  a  mountain  crest; 
And  as  she  folds  her  wings  of  mist, 

So  I  could  make  my  rest. 

There  is  no  chain  to  bind  her  so 

Unto  that  purple  height; 
And  she  will  shine  and  wander,  slow* 

Slow,  with  a  cloud's  delight. 

Would  she  begone?  She  melts  away, 

A  heavenly  joyous  thing. 
Yet  day  will  find  the  mountain  whites 

White-folded  with  her  wing. 

As  you  may  see,  but  half  aware 

If  it  be  late  or  soon, 
Soft  breathing  on  the  day-time  air, 

The  fair  forgotten  Moon. 

And  though  love  cannot  bind  me,  Love? 
—  Ah  no  !  —  yet  I  could  stay 


128  SONG 


Maybe,  with  wings  forever  spread, 
—  Forever,  and  a  day. 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody. 

THE  THOUGHT  OF  HEK 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  take  me  unaware, 

When  most  with  lesser  things  my  brain  is  wrought, 
As  in  some  nimble  interchange  of  thought 

The  silence  enters,  and  the  talkers  stare. 

Suddenly  I  am  still  and  thou  art  there, 
A  viewless  visitant  and  unbesought, 
And  all  my  thinking  trembles  into  nought 

And  all  my  being  opens  like  a  prayer. 

Thou  art  the  lifted  Chalice  in  my  soul, 

And  I  a  dim  church  at  the  thought  of  thee;^ 
Brief  be  the  moment,  but  the  mass  is  said, 

The  benediction  like  an  aureole 

Is  on  my  spirit,  and  shuddering  through  me 
A  rapture  like  the  rapture  of  the  dead. 

Richard  Hovey0 

SONG 

IF  love  were  but  a  little  thing  — 

Strange  love,  which,  more  than  all,  is  great  — 
One  might  not  such  devotion  bring, 

Early  to  serve  and  late. 

If  love  were  but  a  passing  breath  — 

Wild  love  —  which,  as  God  knows,  is  sweet  — 

One  might  not  make  of  life  and  death 
A  pillow  for  love's  feet. 

Florence  Earle  Coates, 


ONCE  120 


THE  ROSARY 

THE  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me; 

I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 

My  rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 

To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  —  and  there 
A  cross  is  hung. 

Oh,  memories  that  bless  —  and  burn ! 
Oh,  barren  gain  —  and  bitter  loss! 
I  kiss  each  bead,  and  strive  at  last  to  learn 
To  kiss  the  cross, 

Sweetheart, 
To  kiss  the  cross. 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers^ 


ONCE 

THAT  day  her  eyes  were  deep  as  night. 

She  had  the  motion  of  the  rose, 

The  bird  that  veers  across  the  light, 

The  waterfall  that  leaps  and  throws 

Its  irised  spindrift  to  the  sun. 

She  seemed  a  wind  of  music  passing  on0 

Alone  I  saw  her  that  one  day 
Stand  in  the  window  of  my  life. 
Her  sudden  hand  melted  away 
Under  my  lips,  and  without  strife 


ISO      LOVE  KNOCKS  AT  THE  DOOR 

I  held  her  in  my  arms  awhile 

And  drew  into  mj  lips  her  living  smile,  — 

Now  many  a  day  ago  and  year! 

Since  when  I  dream  and  lie  awake 

In  summer  nights  to  feel  her  near, 

And  from  the  heavy  darkness  break 

Glitters,  till  all  my  spirit  swims 

And  her  hand  hovers  on  my  shaking  limbs. 

If  once  again  before  I  die 

I  drank  the  laughter  of  her  mouth 

And  quenched  my  fever  utterly, 

I  say,  and  should  it  cost  my  youth, 

'T  were  well !  for  I  no  more  should  wait 

Hammering  midnight  on  the  doors  of  fate. 

Trumbull  Stickney. 


LOVE  KNOCKS  AT  THE  DOOR 

IN  the  pain,  in  the  loneliness  of  love, 

To  the  heart  of  my  sweet  I  fled. 
I  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  living  heart, 
"Let  in  —  let  in  — "  I  said. 

"What  seek  you  here?"  the  voices  cried, 

"  You  seeker  among  the  dead"  — 
"Herself  I  seek,  herself  I  seek, 
Let  in  —  let  in!"  I  said. 

They  opened  the  door  of  her  living  heart, 
But  the  core  thereof  was  dead. 


THE  CANDLE  AND  THE  FLAME    131 

They  opened  the  core  of  her  living  heart  — 
A  worm  at  the  core  there  fed. 

"Where  is  my  sweet,  where  is  my  sweet?" 
"She  is  gone  away,  she  is  fled. 
Ixmg  years  ago  she  fled  away, 
She  will  never  return,"  they  said. 

John  Hall  Wheelock, 


THE  CANDLE  AND  THE  FLAME 

THY  hands  are  like  cool  herbs  that  bring 
Balm  to  men's  hearts,  upon  them  laid; 
Thy  lovely-petalled  lips  are  made 

As  any  blossom  of  the  spring. 

But  in  thine  eyes  there  is  a  thing, 
O  Love,  that  makes  me  half  afraid. 

For  they  are  old,  those  eyes  .  .  .  They  gleam 
Between  the  waking  and  the  dream 

With  antique  wisdom,  like  a  bright 
Lamp  strangled  by  the  temple's  veil, 

That  beckons  to  the  acolyte 
Who  prays  with  trembling  lips  and  pale 

In  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

They  are  as  old  as  Life.  They  were 
When  proud  Gomorrah  reared  its  head 

A  new-born  city.  They  were  there 
When  in  the  places  of  the  dead 

Men  swathed  the  body  of  the  Lord. 
They  visioned  Pa-wak  raise  the  wall 


132    THE   CANDLE   AND   THE   FLAME 

Of  China.  They  saw  Carthage  fall 
And  marked  the  grim  Hun  lead  his  horde. 

There  is  no  secret  anywhere 
Nor  any  joy  or  shame  that  lies 
Not  writ  somehow  in  those  child-eyes 
Of  thine,  O  Love,  in  some  strange  wise. 

Thou  art  the  lad  Endymion, 

And  that  great  queen  with  spice  and  myrrh 

From  Araby,  whom  Solomon 
Delighted,  and  the  lust  of  her. 

The  legions  marching  from  the  sea 
With  Csesar's  cohorts  sang  of  thee, 

How  thy  fair  head  was  more  to  him 
Than  all  the  land  of  Italy. 
Yea,  in  the  old  days  thou  wast  she 

Who  lured  Mark  Antony  from  home 
To  death  and  Egypt,  seeing  he 

Lost  love  when  he  lost  Rome. 

Thou  saw'st  old  Tubal  strike  the  lyre, 
Yea,  first  for  thee  the  poet  hurled 

Defiance  at  God's  starry  choir! 

Thou  art  the  romance  and  the  fire, 
Thou  art  the  pageant  and  the  strife, 

The  clamour,  mounting  high  and  higher, 
From  all  the  lovers  in  the  world 
To  all  the  lords  of  love  and  life. 

e  .......  o 

Perhaps  the  passions  of  mankind 
Are  but  the  torches  mystical 


STAINS  133 


Lit  by  some  spirit-hand  to  find 
The  dwelling  of  the  Master-Mind 
That  knows  the  secret  of  it  all, 
In  the  great  darkness  and  the  wind. 

We  are  the  Candle,  Love  the  Flame, 
Each  little  life-light  flickers  out, 

Love  bides,  immortally  the  same: 

When  of  life's  fever  we  shall  tire 

He  will  desert  us  and  the  fire 
Rekindle  new  in  prince  or  lout. 

Twin-born  of  knowledge  and  of  lust, 

He  was  before  us,  he  shall  be 
Indifferent  still  of  thee  and  me, 
When  shattered  is  life's  golden  cup, 
When  thy  young  limbs  are  shrivelled  up. 
And  when  my  heart  is  turned  to  dust. 

Nay,  sweet,  smile  not  to  know  at  last 
That  thou  and  I,  or  knave,  or  fool, 
Are  but  the  involitient  tool 

Of  some  world-purpose  vague  and  vast. 

No  bar  to  passion's  fury  set, 

With  monstrous  poppies  spice  the  winei 
For  only  drunk  are  we  divine, 

And  only  mad  shall  we  forget! 

George  Sylvester 

STAINS 

THE  three  ghosts  on  the  lonesome  road 

Spake  each  to  one  another, 
**  Whence  came  that  stain  about  your  mouth 


134       DE  MASSA  OB  DE  SHEEPFOL' 

No  lifted  hand  may  cover?" 
"From  eating  of  forbidden  fruit, 
Brother,  my  brother." 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  sunless  road 

Spake  each  to  one  another, 
"  Whence  came  that  red  burn  on  your  foot 

No  dust  nor  ash  may  cover?" 
"I  stamped  a  neighbor's  hearth-flame  out, 

Brother,  my  brother." 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  windless  road 

Spake  each  to  one  another, 
"Whence  came  that  blood  upon  your  hand 

No  other  hand  may  cover?" 
"From  breaking  of  a  woman's  heart, 

Brother,  my  brother." 

"Yet  on  the  earth  clean  men  we  walked, 

Glutton  and  Thief  and  Lover; 
White  flesh  and  fair  it  hid  our  stains 

That  no  man  might  discover." 
"Naked  the  soul  goes  up  to  God, 
Brother,  my  brother." 

Theodosia  Garrison 


DE  MASSA  OB  DE  SHEEPFOL' 

DE  massa  ob  de  sheepfoP 
Dat  guard  de  sheepfoP  bin, 

Look  out  in  de  gloomerin*  meadows 
Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 


BLACK  SHEEP  135 


So  he  call  to  de  hirelin'  shephe'd : 
"Is  my  sheep  —  is  dey  all  come  in?" 

Oh  den,  says  de  hirelin'  shephe'd, 
"Dey's  some,  dey's  black  and  thin, 
And  some,  dey 's  po'  ol'  wedda's  — 

But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in. 

But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in." 

Den  de  massa  ob  de  sheepfol* 

Dat  guard  de  sheepfol'  bin, 
Goes  down  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows 

Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 
So  he  le'  down  de  ba's  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Callin'  sof :  "Come  in!  Come  in!" 

Callin'  sof:  "Come  in!  Come  in!" 

Den  up  t'ro  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 

T'ro  de  col'  night  rain  an'  win*, 
An'  up  t'ro  de  gloomerin'  rain-paf 

Whar  de  sleet  fa'  piercin'  thin  — 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol' 

Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in ! 

Sarah  Pratt  McLean  Greene. 


BLACK  SHEEP 

FROM  their  folded  mates  they  wander  far, 
Their  ways  seem  harsh  and  wild; 

They  follow  the  beck  of  a  baleful  star, 
Their  paths  are  dream-beguiled. 


136    LET  ME  NO  MORE  A  MENDICANT 

Yet  haply  they  sought  but  a  wider  range, 

Some  loftier  mountain-slope, 
And  little  recked  of  the  country  strange 

Beyond  the  gates  of  hope. 

And  haply  a  bell  with  a  luring  call 

Summoned  their  feet  to  tread 
Midst  the  cruel  rocks,  where  the  deep  pitfall 

And  the  lurking  snare  are  spread. 

Maybe,  in  spite  of  their  tameless  days 

Of  outcast  liberty, 
They  're  sick  at  heart  for  the  homely  ways 

Where  their  gathered  brothers  be. 

And  oft  at  night,  when  the  plains  fall  dark 

And  the  hills  loom  large  and  dim, 
For  the  Shepherd's  voice  they  mutely  hark, 

And  their  souls  go  out  to  him. 

Meanwhile,  "Black  sheep!  Black  sheep!"  we  cry, 

Safe  in  the  inner  fold; 
And  maybe  they  hear,  and  wonder  why, 

And  marvel,  out  in  the  cold. 

Richard  Burton. 


LET  ME  NO  MORE  A  MENDICANT 

LET  me  no  more  a  mendicant 
Without  the  gate 
Of  the  world's  kingly  palace  wait; 
Morning  is  spent, 


LINCOLN  137 


The  sentinels  change  and  challenge  in  the  tower, 
Now  slant  the  shadows  eastward  hour  by  hour. 

Open  the  door,  O  Seneschal !  Within 

I  see  them  sit, 

The  feasters,  daring  destiny  with  wit, 

Casting  to  win 

Or  lose  their  utmost,  and  men  hurry  by 

At  offices  of  confluent  energy. 

Let  me  not  here  a  mendicant 

Without  the  gate 

Linger  from  dayspring  till  the  night  is  late, 

And  there  are  sent 

All  homeless  stars  to  loiter  in  the  sky, 

And  beggared  midnight  winds  to  wander  by. 

Arthur  Cotton, 


LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

WHEN  the  Norn  Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour 
Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 
She  left  the  Heaven  of  Heroes  and  came  down 
To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 
She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road  — 
Clay  warm  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  Earth, 
Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy; 
Tempered  the  heap  with  thrill  of  human  tears; 
Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 
Into  the  shape  she  breathed  a  flame  to  light 
That  tender,  tragic,  ever-changing  face. 
Here  was  a  man  to  hold  against  the  world, 
A  man  to  match  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 


138  LINCOLN 


The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red  earth; 

The  smack  and  tang  of  elemental  things; 

The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  cliff; 

The  good-will  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves; 

The  friendly  welcome  of  the  wayside  well; 

The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea; 

The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn; 

The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars; 

The  secrecy  of  streams  that  make  their  way 

Beneath  the  mountain  to  the  rifted  rock; 

The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 

That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  flower 

As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind  — 

To  the  grave's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 

That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

Sprung  from  the  West, 

The  strength  of  virgin  forests  braced  his  mind, 
The  hush  of  spacious  prairies  stilled  his  soul. 
Up  from  log  cabin  to  the  Capitol, 
One  fire  was  on  his  spirit,  one  resolve  — 
To  send  the  keen  ax  to  the  root  of  wrong, 
Clearing  a  free  way  for  the  feet  of  God. 
And  evermore  he  burned  to  do  his  deed 
With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king: 
He  built  the  rail-pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every  blow, 
The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  stroke, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

So  came  the  Captain  with  the  mighty  heart; 
And  when  the  judgment  thunders  split  the  house, 
Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  rest, 


THE  MASTER  139 


He  held  the  ridgepole  up,  and  spiked  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Home.   He  held  his  place  — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree  — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at  praise. 
And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  lordly  cedar,  green  with  boughs, 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 

Edwin  Markham. 


THE  MASTER 

(Lincoln) 

A  FLYING  word  from  here  and  there 
Had  sown  the  name  at  which  we  sneered, 
But  soon  the  name  was  everywhere, 
To  be  reviled  and  then  revered : 
A  presence  to  be  loved  and  feared, 
We  cannot  hide  it,  or  deny 
That  we,  the  gentlemen  who  jeered, 
May  be  forgotten  by  and  by. 

He  came  when  days  were  perilous 
And  hearts  of  men  were  sore  beguiled; 
And  having  made  his  note  of  us, 
He  pondered  and  was  reconciled. 
Was  ever  master  yet  so  mild 
As  he,  and  so  untamable? 
We  doubted,  even  when  he  smiled, 
Not  knowing  what  he  knew  so  well. 

He  knew  that  undeceiving  fate 

Would  shame  us  whom  he  served  unsought; 


140 THE   MASTER 

He  knew  that  he  must  wince  and  wait  — 
The  jest  of  those  for  whom  he  fought; 
He  knew  devoutly  what  he  thought 
Of  us  and  of  our  ridicule; 
He  knew  that  we  must  all  be  taught 
Like  little  children  in  a  school. 

We  gave  a  glamour  to  the  task 

That  he  encountered  and  saw  through, 

But  little  of  us  did  he  ask, 

And  little  did  we  ever  do. 

And  what  appears  if  we  review 

The  season  when  we  railed  and  chaffed? 

It  is  the  face  of  one  who  knew 

That  we  were  learning  while  we  laughed. 

The  face  that  in  our  vision  feels 
Again  the  venom  that  we  flung, 
Transfigured  to  the  world  reveals 
The  vigilance  to  which  we  clung. 
Shrewd,  hallowed,  harassed,  and  among 
The  mysteries  that  are  untold, 
The  face  we  see  was  never  young, 
Nor  could  it  ever  have  been  old. 

For  he,  to  whom  we  have  applied 
Our  shopman's  test  of  age  and  worth, 
Was  elemental  when  he  died, 
As  he  was  ancient  at  his  birth : 
The  saddest  among  kings  of  earth, 
Bowed  with  a  galling  crown,  this  man 
Met  rancor  with  a  cryptic  mirth, 
Laconic  —  and  Olympian. 


THE  BUILDING    OF  SPRINGFIELD    141 

The  love,  the  grandeur,  and  the  fame 
Are  bounded  by  the  world  alone; 
The  calm,  the  smouldering,  and  the  flame 
Of  awful  patience  were  his  own : 
With  him  they  are  forever  flown 
Past  all  our  fond  self -shade  wings, 
Wherewith  we  cumber  the  Unknown 
As  with  inept  Icarian  wings. 

For  we  were  not  as  other  men : 
*T  was  ours  to  soar  and  his  to  see. 
But  we  are  coming  down  again, 
And  we  shall  come  down  pleasantly; 
Nor  shall  we  longer  disagree 
On  what  it  is  to  be  sublime, 
But  flourish  in  our  perigee 
And  have  one  Titan  at  a  time. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson* 


ON  THE  BUILDING  OF  SPRINGFIELD 

LET  not  our  town  be  large  —  remembering 
That  little  Athens  was  the  Muses'  home; 

That  Oxford  rules  the  heart  of  London  still, 
That  Florence  gave  the  Renaissance  to  Rome. 

Record  it  for  the  grandson  of  your  son  — 

A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day : 
Our  little  town  cannot  complete  her  soul 

Till  countless  generations  pass  away. 

Now  let  each  child  be  joined  as  to  a  church 
To  her  perpetual  hopes,  each  man  ordained; 


142    THE   BUILDING   OF   SPRINGFIELD 

Let  every  street  be  made  a  reverent  aisle 

Where  music  grows,  and  beauty  is  unchained. 

Let  Science  and  Machinery  and  Trade 

Be  slaves  of  her,  and  make  her  all  in  all  — 

Building  against  our  blatant  restless  time 
An  unseen,  skillful,  mediaeval  wall. 

Let  every  citizen  be  rich  toward  God. 

Let  Christ,  the  beggar,  teach  divinity  — 
Let  no  man  rule  who  holds  his  money  dear. 

Let  this,  our  city,  be  our  luxury. 

We  should  build  parks  that  students  from  afar 
Would  choose  to  starve  in,  rather  than  go  home  — » 

Fair  little  squares,  with  Phidian  ornament  — 
Food  for  the  spirit,  milk  and  honeycomb. 

Songs  shall  be  sung  by  us  in  :  hat  good  day  — 
Songs  we  have  written  —  Hood  within  the  rhyme 

Beating,  as  when  old  England  still  was  glad, 
The  purple,  rich,  Elizabethan  time. 

Say,  is  my  prophecy  too  fair  and  far? 

I  only  know,  unless  her  faith  be  high, 
The  soul  of  this  our  Nineveh  is  doomed, 

Our  little  Babylon  will  surely  die. 

Some  city  on  the  breast  of  Illinois 

No  wiser  and  no  better  at  the  start, 
By  faith  shall  rise  redeemed  —  by  faith  shall  rise 

Bearing  the  western  glory  in  her  heart  — 

The  genius  of  the  Maple,  Elm  and  Oak, 
The  secret  hidden  iu  each  grain  of  corn  — 


THE  POET'S  TOWN  148 

The  glory  that  the  prairie  angels  sing 
At  night  when  sons  of  Life  and  Love  are  born  -— 

Born  but  to  struggle,  squalid  and  alone, 
Broken  and  wandering  in  their  early  years. 

A'hen  will  they  make  our  dusty  streets  their  goal, 
Within  our  attics  hide  their  sacred  tears? 

When  will  they  start  our  vulgar  blood  athrill 
With  living  language  —  words  that  set  us  free? 

When  will  they  make  a  path  of  beauty  clear 
Between  our  riches  and  our  liberty? 

We  must  have  many  Lincoln-hearted  men  — 

A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day  — 
And  they  must  do  their  work,  and  come  and  go 

While  countless  generations  pass  away. 

Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay* 


THE  POET'S  TOWN 

I 

'MiD  glad  green  miles  of  tillage 
And  fields  where  cattle  graze, 
A  prosy  little  village, 
You  drowse  away  the  days. 

And  yet  —  a  wakeful  glory 
Clings  round  you  as  you  doze; 
One  living  lyric  story 
Makes  music  of  your  prose. 


144  THE   POET'S   TOWN 


Here  once,  returning  never, 
The  feet  of  song  have  trod; 
And  flashed  —  Oh,  once  forever!  — 
The  singing  Flame  of  God. 

II 

These  were  his  fields  Elysian: 
With  mystic  eyes  he  saw 
The  sowers  planting  vision, 
The  reapers  gleaning  awe. 

Serfs  to  a  sordid  duty, 
He  saw  them  with  his  heart, 
Priests  of  the  Ultimate  Beauty, 
Feeding  the  flame  of  art. 

The  weird,  untempled  Makers 
Pulsed  in  the  things  he  saw; 
The  wheat  through  its  virile  acres 
Billowed  the  Song  of  Law. 

The  epic  roll  of  the  furrow 

Flung  from  the  writing  plow, 

The  dactyl  phrase  of  the  green-rowed  maize 

Measured  the  music  of  Now, 

III 

Sipper  of  ancient  flagons, 
Often  the  lonesome  boy 
Saw  in  the  farmers'  wagons 
The  chariots  hurled  at  Troy. 

Trundling  in  dust  and  thunder 
They  rumbled  up  and  down, 


THE  POET'S  TOWN 145 

Laden  with  princely  plunder, 
Loot  of  the  tragic  Town. 

And  once  when  the  rich  man's  daughter 
Smiled  on  the  boy  at  play, 
Sword-storms,  giddy  with  slaughter, 
Swept  back  the  ancient  day ! 

War  steeds  shrieked  in  the  quiet, 
Far  and  hoarse  were  the  cries; 
And  Oh,  through  the  din  and  the  riot, 
The  music  of  Helen's  eyes! 

Stabbed  with  the  olden  Sorrow, 
He  slunk  away  from  the  play, 
For  the  Past  and  the  vast  To-morrow 
Were  wedded  in  his  To-day. 

IV 

Rich  with  the  dreamer's  pillage, 
An  idle  and  worthless  lad, 
Least  in  a  prosy  village, 
And  prince  in  Allahabad; 

Lover  of  golden  apples, 
Munching  a  daily  crust; 
Haunter  of  dream-built  chapels. 
Worshipping  in  the  dust; 

Dull  to  the  worldly  duty, 
Less  to  the  town  he  grew, 
And  more  to  the  God  of  Beauty 
Than  even  the  grocer  knew! 


146  THE  POET'S  TOWN 


Corn  for  the  buyers,  and  cattle  — 
But  what  could  the  dreamer  sell? 
Echoes  of  cloudy  battle? 
Music  from  heaven  and  hell? 

Spices  and  bales  of  plunder 
Argosied  over  the  sea? 
Tapestry  woven  of  wonder, 
And  myrrh  from  Araby? 

None  of  your  dream-stuffs,  Fellow, 

Looter  of  Samarcand ! 

Gold  is  heavy  and  yellow, 

And  value  is  weighed  in  the  hand! 

VI 

And  yet,  when  the  years  had  humbled 
The  Kings  in  the  Realm  of  the  Boy, 
Song-built  bastions  crumbled, 
Ash-heaps  smothering  Troy; 

Thirsting  for  shattered  flagons, 
Quaffing  a  brackish  cup, 
With  all  of  his  chariots,  wagons  — 
He  never  could  quite  grow  up. 

The  debt  to  the  ogre,  To-morrow, 
He  never  could  comprehend: 
Why  should  the  borrowers  borrow? 
Why  should  the  lenders  lend? 

Never  an  oak  tree  borrowed, 

But  took  for  its  needs  —  and  gave. 


THE   POET'S  TOWN  147 

Never  an  oak  tree  sorrowed; 
Debt  was  the  mark  of  the  slave. 

Grass  in  the  priceless  weather 

Sucked  from  the  paps  of  the  Earth, 

And  the  hills  that  were  lean  it  fleshed  with  green  ~— 

Oh,  what  is  a  lesson  worth? 

But  still  did  the  buyers  barter 
And  the  sellers  squint  at  the  scales; 
And  price  was  the  stake  of  the  martyr, 
And  cost  was  the  lock  of  the  jails. 

VII 

Windflowers  herald  the  Maytide, 
Rendering  worth  for  worth; 
Ragweeds  gladden  the  wayside, 
Biting  the  dugs  of  the  Earth; 

Violets,  scattering  glories, 

Feed  from  the  dewy  gem: 

But  dreamers  are  fed  by  the  living  and  dead  — 

And  what  is  the  gift  from  them? 

VIII 

Never  a  stalk  of  the  Summer 
Dreams  of  its  mission  and  doom: 
Only  to  hasten  the  Comer  •— - 
Martyrdom  unto  the  Bloom, 

Ever  the  Mighty  Chooser 
Plucks  when  the  fruit  is  ripe, 
Scorning  the  mass  and  letting  it  pass, 
Keen  for  the  cryptic  type. 


148 THE  POET'S   TOWN 

Greece  in  her  growing  season 

Troubled  the  lands  and  seas, 

Plotted  and  fought  and  suffered  and  wrought 

Building  a  Sophocles! 

Only  a  faultless  temple 

Stands  Tor  the  vassal's  groan; 

The  harlot's  strife  and  the  faith  of  the  wife 

Blend  in  a  graven  stone. 

Ne'er  do  the  stern  gods  cherish 
The  hope  of  the  million  lives; 
Always  the  Fact  shall  perish 
And  only  the  Truth  survives. 

Gardens  of  roses  wither, 

Shaping  the  perfect  rose: 

And  the  poet's  song  shall  live  for  the  long, 

Dumb,  aching  years  of  prose. 

IX 

King  of  a  Realm  of  Magic, 
He  was  the  fool  of  the  town., 
Hiding  the  ache  of  the  tragic 
Under  the  grin  of  the  clown. 

Worn  with  the  vain  endeavor 
To  fit  in  the  sordid  plan; 
Doomed  to  be  poet  forever, 
He  longed  to  be  only  a  man; 

lV>  be  freed  from  the  god's  enthralling, 
Back  with  the  reeds  of  the  stream; 
Deaf  to  the  Vision  calling, 
And  dead  to  the  lash  of  the  Dream. 


THE  POET'S   TOWN  149 


But  still  did  the  Mighty  Makers 
Stir  in  the  common  sod; 
The  corn  through  its  awful  acres 
Trembled  and  thrilled  with  God! 

More  than  a  man  was  the  sower, 

Lured  by  a  man's  desire, 

For  a  triune  Bride  walked  close  at  his  side  — 

Dew  and  Dust  and  Fire! 

More  than  a  man  was  the  plowman, 
Shouting  his  gee  and  haw; 
For  a  something  dim  kept  pace  with  him, 
And  ever  the  poet  saw; 

Till  the  winds  of  the  cosmic  struggle 
Made  of  his  flesh  a  flute, 
To  echo  the  tune  of  a  whirlwind  rune 
Unto  the  million  mute. 

XI 

Son  of  the  Mother  of  mothers, 
The  womb  and  the  tomb  of  Life, 
With  Fire  and  Air  for  brothers 
And  a  clinging  Dream  for  a  wife; 

Ever  the  soul  of  the  dreamer 

Strove  with  its  mortal  mesh, 

And  the  lean  flame  grew  till  it  fretted  through 

The  last  thin  links  of  flesh. 

Oh,  rending  the  veil  asunder, 
He  fled  to  mingle  again 


150 THE  POET'S   TOWN 

With  the  dred  Orestean  thunder, 
The  Lear  of  the  driven  rain! 

XII 

Once  in  a  cycle  the  comet 

Doubles  its  lonesome  track. 

Enriched  with  the  tears  of  a  thousand  years5 

^Eschylus  wanders  back. 

Ever  inweaving,  returning, 

The  near  grows  out  of  the  far; 

And  Homer  shall  sing  once  more  in  a  swing 

Of  the  austere  Polar  Star. 

Then  what  of  the  lonesome  dreamer 
With  the  lean  blue  flame  in  his  breast? 
And  who  was  your  clown  for  a  day,  O  Town, 
The  strange,  unbidden  guest? 

XIII 

'M id  glad  green  miles  of  tillage 
And  fields  where  cattle  graze; 
A  prosy  little  village, 
You  drowse  away  the  days. 

And  yet  —  a  wakeful  glory 
Clings  round  you  as  you  doze; 
One  living,  lyric  story 
Makes  music  of  your  prose! 

John  G.  NeihardL 


MARTIN  151 


THE  NEW  LIFE 

PERHAPS  they  laughed  at  Dante  in  his  youth, 

Told  him  that  truth 

Had  unappealably  been  said 

In  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  dead :  — 

Perhaps  he  listened  and  but  bowed  his  head 

In  acquiescent  honour,  while  his  heart 

Held  natal  tidings,  —  that  a  new  life  is  the  part 

Of  every  man  that's  born, 

A  new  life  never  lived  before, 

And  a  new  expectant  art; 

It  is  the  variations  of  the  morn 

That  are  forever,  more  and  more, 

The  single  dawning  of  the  single  truth. 

So  answers  Dante  to  the  heart  of  youth! 

Witter  Bynner* 

MARTIN 

WHEN  I  am  tired  of  earnest  men, 

Intense  and  keen  and  sharp  and  clever, 
Pursuing  fame  with  brush  or  pen 

Or  counting  metal  disks  forever, 
Then  from  the  halls  of  shadowland 

Beyond  the  trackless  purple  sea 
Old  Martin's  ghost  comes  back  to  stand 

Beside  my  desk  and  talk  to  me. 

Still  on  his  delicate  pale  face 

A  quizzical  thin  smile  is  showing, 

His  cheeks  are  wrinkled  like  fine  lace, 
His  kind  blue  eyes  are  gay  and  glowing. 


MARTIN 


He  wears  a  brilliant-hued  cravat, 
A  suit  to  match  his  soft  gray  hair, 

A  rakish  stick,  a  knowing  hat, 
A  manner  blithe  and  debonair. 

How  good,  that  he  who  always  knew 

That  being  lovely  was  a  duty, 
Should  have  gold  halls  to  wander  through 

And  should  himself  inhabit  beauty. 
How  like  his  old  unselfish  way 

To  leave  those  halls  of  splendid  mirth 
And  comfort  those  condemned  to  stay 

Upon  the  bleak  and  sombre  earth, 

Some  people  ask :  What  cruel  chance 

Made  Martin's  life  so  sad  a  story? 
Martin?  Why,  he  exhaled  romance 

And  wore  an  overcoat  of  glory. 
A  fleck  of  sunlight  in  the  street, 

A  horse,  a  book,  a  girl  who  smiled,  — *• 
Such  visions  made  each  moment  sweet 

For  this  receptive,  ancient  child. 

Because  it  was  old  Martin's  lot 

To  be,  not  make,  a  decoration, 
Shall  we  then  scorn  him,  having  not 

His  genius  of  appreciation? 
Rich  joy  and  love  he  got  and  gave; 

His  heart  was  merry  as  his  dress. 
Pile  laurel  wreaths  upon  his  grave 

Who  did  not  gain,  but  was,  success. 

Joyce  Kilmer. 


EX  LIBRIS  153 


"AS  IN  THE  MIDST  OF  BATTLE  THERE  IS 
ROOM" 

As  in  the  midst  of  battle  there  is  room 

For  thoughts  of  love,  and  in  foul  sin  for  mirth; 
As  gossips  whisper  of  a  trinket's  worth 

Spied  by  the  death-bed's  flickering  candle-gloom; 

As  in  the  crevices  of  Caesar's  tomb 

The  sweet  herbs  flourish  on  a  little  earth: 
So  in  this  great  disaster  of  our  birth 

We  can  be  happy,  and  forget  our  doom. 

For  morning,  with  a  ray  of  tenderest  joy 
Gilding  the  iron  heaven,  hides  the  truth, 

And  evening  gently  woos  us  to  employ 
Our  grief  in  idle  catches.   Such  is  youth; 

Till  from  that  summer's  trance  we  wake,  to  find 

Despair  before  us,  vanity  behind. 

George  Santayana. 

EX  LIBRIS 

IN  an  old  book  at  even  as  I  read 

Fast  fading  words  adown  my  shadowy  page, 

I  crossed  a  tale  of  how,  in  other  age, 
At  Arqua,  with  his  books  around  him,  sped 
The  word  to  Petrarch;  and  with  noble  head 

Bowed  gently  o'er  his  volume  that  sweet  sage 

To  Silence  paid  his  willing  seigniorage. 
And  they  who  found  him  whispered,  "He  is  dead!" 

Thus  timely  from  old  comradeships  would  I 
To  Silence  also  rise.  Let  there  be  night, 


154  THE  POET 

Stillness,  and  only  these  staid  watchers  by, 
And  no  light  shine  save  my  low  study  light  — 

Lest  of  his  kind  intent  some  human  cry 
Interpret  not  the  Messenger  aright. 

Arthur  Up  son. 


THE  POET 

HIMSELF  is  least  afraid 

When  the  singing  lips  in  the  dust 
With  all  mute  lips  are  laid. 

For  thither  all  men  must. 
Nor  is  the  end  long  stayed. 

But  he,  having  cast  his  song 

Upon  the  fakhful  air 
And  given  it  speed  —  is  strong 

That  last  strange  hour  to  dare, 
Nor  wills  to  tarry  long. 

Adown  immortal  time 

That  greater  self  shall  pass, 
And  wear  its  eager  prime 

And  lend  the  youth  it  has 
Like  one  far  blowing  chime. 

He  has  made  sure  the  quest 

And  now  —  his  word  gone  forth  — 

May  have  his  perfect  rest 
Low  in  the  tender  earth, 

The  wind  across  his  breast. 

Mildred  McNeal  Sweeney. 


WHEN  I  HAVE  GONE  WEIRD  WAYS  155 

WHEN  I  HAVE  GONE  WEIRD  WAYS 

WHEN  I  have  finished  with  this  episode, 

Left  the  hard,  uphill  road, 

And  gone  weird  ways  to  seek  another  load, 

Oh,  friends,  regret  me  not,  nor  weep  for  me, 

Child  of  Infinity! 

Nor  dig  a  grave,  nor  rear  for  me  a  tomb 
To  say  with  lying  writ:  "Here  in  the  gloom 
He  who  loved  bigness  takes  a  narrow  room, 

Content  to  pillow  here  his  weary  head, 

For  he  is  dead." 

But  give  my  body  to  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  bid  the  laughing  fire, 

Eager  and  strong  and  swift,  like  my  desire, 

Scatter  my  subtle  essence  into  space, 

Free  me  of  time  and  place. 

And  sweep  the  bitter  ashes  from  the  hearth, 
Fling  back  the  dust  I  borrowed  from  the  earth 
Into  the  chemic  broil  of  death  and  birth, 

The  vast  alembic  of  the  cryptic  scheme, 

Warm  with  the  master-dream. 

And  thus,  O  little  house  that  sheltered  me, 
Dissolve  again  in  wind  and  rain,  to  be 
Part  of  the  cosmic  weird  economy. 

And,  Oh,  how  oft  with  new  life  shalt  thou  lift 

Out  of  the  atom-drift! 

John  G.  NeihardL 


J56         TRUMBULL  STICKNEY 
TRUMBULL  STICKNEY 


IN  silence,  solitude  and  stern  surmise 

His  faith  was  tried  and  proved  commensurate 
With  life  and  death.  The  stone-blind  eyes  of  Fate 

Perpetually  stared  into  his  eyes, 

Yet  to  the  hazard  of  the  enterprise 

He  brought  his  soul,  expectant  and  elate, 
And  challenged,  like  a  champion  at  the  Gate, 

Death's  undissuadable  austerities. 

And  thus,  full-armed  in  all  that  Truth  reprieves 
From  dissolution,  he  beheld  the  breath 

Of  daybreak  flush  his  thought's  exalted  ways, 

While,  like  Dodona's  sad,  prophetic  leaves, 

Round  him  the  scant,  supreme,  momentous  days 
Trembled  and  murmured  in  the  wind  of  Death. 

II 
There  moved  a  Presence  always  by  his  side, 

With  eyes  of  pleasure  and  passion  and  wild  tears, 
And  on  her  lips  the  murmur  of  manj'  years, 
And  in  her  hair  the  chaplets  of  a  bride; 
And  with  him,  hour  by  hour,  came  one  beside, 
Scatheless  of  Time  and  Time's  vicissitude, 
Whose  lips,  perforce  of  endless  solitude, 
Were  silent  and  whose  eyes  were  blind  and  wide. 
But  when  he  died  came  One  who  wore  a  wreath 
Of  star-light,  and  with  fingers  calm  and  bland 

Smoothed  from  his  brows  the  trace  of  mortal  pain; 
And  of  the  two  who  stood  on  either  hand, 
"This  one  is  Life,"  he  said,  "And  this  is  Death, 
And  I  am  Love  and  Lord  over  these  twain!" 

George  Cabot  Lodge, 


COMRADES  157 


SENTENCE 

SHALL  I  say  that  what  heaven  gave 

Earth  has  taken?  — 
Or  that  sleepers  in  the  grave 

Reawaken? 

One  sole  sentence  can  I  know, 

Can  I  say: 
You,  my  comrade,  had  to  go, 

I  to  stay. 

Witter  Bynner. 


COMRADES 

WHERE  are  the  friends  that  I  knew  in  my  Maying, 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  in  the  first  of  my  roaming? 
We  were  dear;  we  were  leal;  O,  far  we  went  straying; 

Now  never  a  heart  to  my  heart  comes  homing!  — 
Where  is  he  now,  the  dark  boy  slender 

Who  taught  me  bare-back,  stirrup  and  reins? 
I  loved  him;  he  loved  me;  my  beautiful,  tender 

Tamer  of  horses  on  grass-grown  plains. 

Where  is  he  now  whose  eyes  swam  brighter, 

Softer  than  love,  in  his  turbulent  charms; 
Who  taught  me  to  strike,  and  to  fall,  dear  fighter9 

And  gathered  me  up  in  his  boyhood  arms; 
Taught  me  the  rifle,  and  with  me  went  riding, 

Suppled  my  limbs  to  the  horseman's  war; 
Where  is  he  now,  for  whom  my  heart 's  biding. 

Biding,  biding  —  but  he  rides  far! 


158 COMRADES 

0  love  that  passes  the  love  of  woman ! 
Who  that  hath  felt  it  shall  ever  forget, 

When  the  breath  of  life  with  a  throb  turns  human, 
And  a  lad's  heart  is  to  a  lad's  heart  set? 

Ever,  forever,  lover  and  rover  — 

They  shall  cling,  nor  each  from  other  shall  part 

Till  the  reign  of  the  stars  in  the  heavens  be  over, 
And  life  is  dust  in  each  faithful  heart! 

They  are  dead,  the  American  grasses  under; 

There  is  no  one  now  who  presses  my  side; 
By  the  African  chotts  I  am  riding  asunder, 

And  with  great  joy  ride  I  the  last  great  ride. 

1  am  fey;  I  am  fain  of  sudden  dying; 
Thousands  of  miles  there  is  no  one  near; 

And  my  heart  —  all  the  night  it  is  crying,  crying 
In  the  bosoms  of  dead  lads  darling-dear. 

Hearts  of  my  music  —  them  dark  earth  covers; 

Comrades  to  die,  and  to  die  for,  were  they; 
In  the  width  of  the  world  there  were  no  such  rovers  — 

Back  to  back,  breast  to  breast,  it  was  ours  to  stay; 
And  the  highest  on  earth  was  the  vow  that  we  cher- 
ished, 

To  spur  forth  from  the  crowd  and  come  back  never 

more, 
And  to  ride  in  the  track  of  great  souls  perished 

Till  the  nests  of  the  lark  shall  roof  us  o'er. 

Yet  lingers  a  horseman  on  Altai  highlands, 

Who  hath  joy  of  me,  riding  the  Tartar  glissade; 

And  one,  far  faring  o'er  orient  islands 

Whose  blood  yet  glints  with  my  blade's  accolade; 


COMRADES  159 


North,  west,  east,  I  fling  you  my  last  hallooing, 
Last  love  to  the  breasts  where  my  own  has  bled; 

Through  the  reach  of  the  desert  my  soul  leaps  pursuing 
My  star  where  it  rises  a  Star  of  the  Dead. 

George  Edward  Woodberry. 

COMRADES 

COMRADES,  pour  the  wine  to-night 

For  the  parting  is  with  dawn ! 

Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together, 

With  the  daylight  coming  on.' 

Greet  the  morn 

With  a  double  horn, 

When  strong  men  drink  together! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 

For  the  batt4e  is  with  dawn ! 

Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 

With  the  triumph  coming  on ! 

Greet  the  foe, 

And  lay  him  low, 

When  strong  men  fight  together! 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night9 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn ! 

Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together, 

With  the  tempest  coming  on! 

Greet  the  sea 

With  a  shout  of  glee, 

When  strong  men  roam  together! 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 
For  the  dying  is  with  dawn! 


J60  CALVERLY'S 


Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 

With  the  silence  coming  on! 

Greet  the  end 

As  a  friend  a  friend, 

When  strong  men  die  together! 

Richard  Hovey0 

CALVERLY'S 

WE  go  no  more  to  Calverly's, 
For  there  the  lights  are  few  and  low; 
And  who  are  there  to  see  by  them, 
Or  what  they  see,  we  do  not  know. 
Poor  strangers  of  another  tongue 
May  now  creep  in  from  anywhere, 
And  we,  forgotten,  be  no  more 
Than  twilight  on  a  ruin  there. 

We  two,  the  remnant.  All  the  rest 

Are  cold  and  quiet.   You  nor  I, 

Nor  fiddle  now,  nor  flagon-lid, 

May  ring  them  back  from  where  they  lie» 

No  fame  delays  oblivion 

For  them,  but  something  yet  survives: 

A  record  written  fair,  could  we 

But  read  the  book  of  scattered  lives. 

There'll  be  a  page  for  Leffingwell, 
And  one  for  Lingard,  the  Moon-calf; 
And  who  knows  what  for  Clavering, 
Who  died  because  he  could  n't  laugh? 
Who  knows  or  cares?  No  sign  is  here, 
No  face,  no  voice,  no  memory; 


URIEL  161 


No  Lingard  with  his  eerie  joy, 
No  Clavering,  no  Calverly0 

We  cannot  have  them  here  with  us 
To  say  where  their  light  lives  are  gone, 
Or  if  they  be  of  other  stuff 
Than  are  the  moons  of  Ilion. 
So,  be  their  place  of  one  estate 
With  ashes,  echoes,  and  old  wars,  — 
Or  ever  we  be  of  the  night, 
Or  we  be  lost  among  the  stars. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson, 

URIEL 

(IN   MEMORY  OF  WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY.) 
I 

URIEL,  you  that  in  the  ageless  sun 

Sit  in  the  awful  silences  of  light, 

Singing  of  vision  hid  from  human  sight,  — 

Prometheus,  beautiful  rebellious  one! 

And  you,  Deucalion, 

For  whose  blind  seed  was  brought  the  illuming  spark. 

Are  you  not  gathered,  now  his  day  is  done, 

Beside  the  brink  of  that  relentless  dark  — 

The  dark  where  your  dear  singer's  ghost  is  gone? 

II 

Imagined  beings,  who  majestic  blend 
Your  forms  with  beauty!  —  questing,  unconfined, 
The  mind  conceived  you,  though  the  quenched  mind 
Goes  down  in  dark  where  you  in  dawn  ascend. 


J62  URIEL 


Our  songs  can  but  suspend 

The  ultimate  silence :  yet  could  song  aspire 

The  realms  of  mortal  music  to  extend 

And  wake  a  Sibyl's  voice  or  Seraph's  lyre  — » 

How  should  it  tell  the  dearness  of  a  friend? 

Ill 

The  simplest  is  the  inexpressible; 

The  heart  of  music  still  evades  the  Muse, 

And  arts  of  men  the  heart  of  man  suffuse, 

And  saddest  things  are  made  of  silence  still. 

In  vain  the  senses  thrill 

To  give  our  sorrows  glorious  relief 

In  pyre  of  verse  and  pageants  volatile, 

And  I,  in  vain,  to  speak  for  him  my  grief 

Whose  spirit  of  fire  invokes  my  waiting  will. 

IV 

To  him  the  best  of  friendship  needs  must  be 
Uttered  no  more;  yet  was  he  so  endowed 
That  Poetry  because  of  him  is  proud 
And  he  more  noble  for  his  poetry, 
Wherefore  infallibly 

I  obey  the  strong  compulsion  which  this  verse 
Lays  on  my  lips  with  strange  austerity  — 
Now  that  his  voice  is  silent  —  to  rehearse 
For  my  own  heart  how  he  was  dear  to  me. 

V 

Not  by  your  gradual  sands,  elusive  Time, 
We  measure  your  gray  sea,  that  never  rests; 
The  bleeding  hour-glasses  in  our  breasts 
Mete  with  quick  pangs  the  ebbing  of  our  prime, 


URIEL 


And  drip,  like  sudden  rime 

In  March,  that  melts  to  runnels  from  a  pane 

The  south  breathes  on  —  oblivion  of  sublime 

Crystallizations,  and  the  ruthless  wane 

Of  glittering  stars,  that  scarce  had  range  to  climb. 

VI 

Darkling  those  constellations  of  his  soul 
Glimmered,  while  racks  of  stellar  lightning  shot 
The  white,  creative  meteors  of  thought 
Through  that  last  night,  where  —  clad  in  cloudy 

stole  — 

Beside  his  ebbing  shoal 

Of  life-blood,  stood  Saint  Paul,  blazing  a  theme 
Of  living  drama  from  a  fiery  scroll 
Across  his  stretched  vision  as  in  dream  — 
When  Death,  with  blind  dark,  blotted  out  the  whole, 

VII 

And  yet  not  all:  though  darkly  alien 
Those  uncompleted  worlds  of  work  to  be 
Are  waned ;  still,  touched  by  them,  the  memory 
Gives  afterglow;  and  now  that  comes  again 
The  mellow  season  when 
Our  eyes  last  met,  his  kindling  currents  run 
Quickening  within  me  gladness  and  new  ken 
Of  life,  that  I  have  shared  his  prime  with  one 
Who  wrought  large-minded  for  the  love  of  men. 

VIII 

But  not  alone  to  share  that  large  estate 
Of  work  and  interchange  of  communings  — 
The  little  human  paths  to  heavenly  things 


164 URIEL 

Were  also  ours :  the  casual,  intimate 

Vistas,  which  consecrate  — 

With  laughter  and  quick  tears  —  the  dusty  noon 

Of  days,  and  by  moist  beams  irradiate 

Our  plodding  minds  with  courage,  and  attune 

The  fellowship  that  bites  its  thumb  at  fate. 

IX 

Where  art  thou  now,  mine  host  Guff  an  ti?  —  where 

The  iridescence  of  thy  motley  troop ! 

Ah,  where  the  merry,  animated  group 

That  snuggled  elbows  for  an  extra  chair, 

When  space  was  none  to  spare, 

To  pour  the  votive  Chianti  for  a  toast 

To  dramas  dark  and  lyrics  debonair, 

The  while,  to  Bella  Napoli,  mine  host 

Exhaled  his  Parmazan,  Parnassan  air! 

X 

Thy  Parmazan,  immortal  laird  of  ease, 
Can  never  mold,  thy  caviare  is  blest, 
While  still  our  glowing  Uriel  greets  the  rest 
Around  thy  royal  board  of  memories, 
Where  sit,  the  salt  of  these, 
He  of  the  laughter  of  a  Hundred  Lights, 
Blithe  Eldorado  of  high  poesies, 
And  he  —  of  enigmatic  gentle  knights 
The  kindly  keen  —  who  sings  of  Calverly's. 

XI 

Because  he  never  wore  his  sentient  heart 
For  crows  and  jays  to  peck,  ofttimes  to  such 
He  seemed  a  silent  fellow,  who  o'ermuch 


URIEL  165 


Held  from  the  general  gossip-ground  apart, - 
Or  tersely  spoke,  and  tart: 
How  should  they  guess  what  eagle  tore,  within, 
His  quick  of  sympathy  for  humblest  smart 
Of  human  wretchedness,  or  probed  his  spleen 
Of  scorn  against  the  hypocritic  mart! 

XII 

Sometimes  insufferable  seemed  to  come 

That  wrath  of  sympathy :  One  windy  night 

We  watched  through  squalid  panes,  forlornly  white, 

Amid  immense  machines'  incessant  hum  — 

Frail  figures,  gaunt  and  dumb, 

Of  overlabored  girls  and  children,  bowed 

Above  their  slavish  toil:  "O  God!  —  A  bomb, 

A  bomb!"  he  cried,  "and  with  one  fiery  cloud 

Expunge  the  horrible  Caesars  of  this  slum!" 

XIII 

Another  night  dreams  on  the  Cornish  hills  : 

Trembling  within  the  low  moon's  pallid  fires, 

The  tall  corn-tassels  lift  their  fragrant  spires; 

From  filmy  spheres,  a  liquid  starlight  fills  — 

Like  dew  of  daffodils  — 

The  fragile  dark,  where  multitudinous 

The  rhythmic,  intermittent  silence  thrills, 

Like  song,  the  valleys.  —  "Hark!"  he  murmurs, 

"Thus 
May  bards  from  crickets  learn  their  canticles!" 

XIV 

Now  Morning,  not  less  lavish  of  her  sweets, 
Leads  us  along  the  woodpaths  —  in  whose  hush 


166  URIEL 


The  quivering  alchemy  of  the  pure  thrush 
Cools  from  above  the  balsam-dripping  heats  — 
To  find,  in  green  retreats, 

'Mid  men  of  clay,  the  great,  quick-hearted  man 
Whose  subtle  art  our  human  age  secretes, 
Or  him  whose  brush,  tinct  with  cerulean, 
Blooms  with  soft  castle-towers  and  cloud-capped 
fleets. 

XV 

Still  to  the  sorcery  of  August  skies 

In  frilled  crimson  flaunt  the  hollyhocks, 

Where,  lithely  poised  along  the  garden  walks, 

His  little  maid  enamoured  blithe  outvies 

The  dipping  butterflies 

In  motion  —  ah,  in  grace  how  grown  the  while, 

Since  he  was  wont  to  render  to  her  eyes 

His  knightly  court,  or  touch  with  flitting  smile 

Her  father's  heart  by  his  true  flatteries ! 

XVI 

But  summer's  golden  pastures  boast  no  trail 

So  splendid  as  our  fretted  snowshoes  blaze 

Where,  sharp  across  the  amethystine  ways, 

Iron  Ascutney  looms  in  azure  mail, 

And,  like  a  frozen  grail, 

The  frore  sun  sets,  intolerably  fair; 

Mute,  in  our  homebound  snow-tracks,  we  exhale 

The  silvery  cold,  and  soon  —  where  bright  logs  flare 

Talk  the  long  indoor  hours,  till  embers  fail. 

XVII 

Ah,  with  the  smoke  what  smouldering  desires 
Waft  to  the  starlight  up  the  swirling  flue!  — 


AZRAEL  167 


Thoughts  that  may  never,  as  the  swallows  do, 
Nest  circling  homeward  to  their  native  fires! 
Ardors  the  soul  suspires 

The  extinct  stars  drink  with  the  dreamer's  breath; 
The  morning-song  of  Eden's  early  choirs 
Grows  dim  with  Adam;  close  at  the  ear  of  death 
Relentless  angels  tune  our  earthly  lyres! 

XVIII 

Let  it  be  so :  More  sweet  it  is  to  be 
A  listener  of  love's  ephemeral  song, 
And  live  with  beauty  though  it  be  not  long, 
And  die  enamoured  of  eternity, 
Though  in  the  apogee 
Of  time  there  sit  no  individual 
Godhead  of  life,  than  to  reject  the  plea 
Of  passionate  beauty:  loveliness  is  all, 
And  love  is  more  divine  than  memory. 

Percy  MacKaye* 

AZRAEL 

THE  angels  in  high  places 

Who  minister  to  us, 
Reflect  God's  smile,  —  their  faces 

Are  luminous; 
Save  one,  whose  face  is  hidden, 

(The  Prophet  saith), 
The  unwelcome,  the  unbidden, 

Azrael,  Angel  of  Death. 
And  yet  that  veiled  face,  I  know 

Is  lit  with  pitying  eyes, 
Like  those  faint  stars,  the  first  to  glow 

Through  cloudy  winter  skies. 


168  THE  FLIGHT 

That  they  may  never  tire, 

Angels,  by  God's  decree, 
Bear  wings  of  snow  and  fire,  — 

Passion  and  purity; 
Save  one,  ail  unavailing, 

(The  Prophet  saith), 
His  wings  are  gray  and  trailing, 

Azrael,  Angel  of  Death. 
And  yet  the  souls  that  Azrael  brings 

Across  the  dark  and  cold, 
Look  up  beneath  those  folded  wings, 

And  find  them  lined  with  gold. 

Robert  Gilbert  Welsh. 


THE  FLIGHT 

UPON  a  cloud  among  the  stars  we  stood. 

The  angel  raised  his  hand  and  looked  and  said, 

"Which  world,  of  all  yon  starry  myriad, 
Shall  we  make  wing  to?"  The  still  solitude 
Became  a  harp  whereon  his  voice  and  mood 
Made  spheral  music  round  his  haloed  head. 
I  spake  —  for  then  I  had  not  long  been  dead  — 

"Let  me  look  round  upon  the  vasts,  and  brood 
A  moment  on  these  orbs  ere  I  decide  .  .  . 
What  is  yon  lower  star  that  beauteous  shines 
And  with  soft  splendour  now  incarnadines 
Our  wings?  —  There  would  I  go  and  there  abide." 
Then  he  as  one  who  some  child's  thought  divines: 

"That  is  the  world  where  yesternight  you  died." 

Lloyd  Mifflin. 


A  RHYME  OF  DEATH'S  INN       169 

THE  RIVAL 

I  so  loved  once,  when  Death  came  by  I  hid 

Away  my  face, 
And  all  my  sweetheart's  tresses  she  undid 

To  make  my  hiding-place. 

The  dread  shade  passed  me  thus  unheeding;  and 

I  turned  me  then 
To  calm  my  love  —  kiss  down  her  shielding  hand 

And  comfort  her  again. 

And  lo!  she  answered  not:  and  she  did  sit 

All  fixedly, 
With  her  fair  face  and  the  sweet  smile  of  it, 

In  love  with  Death,  not  me. 

James  Wkitcomb  Riley, 


A  RHYME  OF  DEATH'S  INN 

A  KHYME  of  good  Death's  inn ! 

My  love  came  to  that  door; 
And  she  had  need  of  many  things, 

The  way  had  been  so  sore. 

My  love  she  lifted  up  her  head, 
"And  is  there  room?"  said  she; 
There  was  no  room  in  Bethlehem's  inn 
For  Christ  who  died  for  me." 

But  said  the  keeper  of  the  inn, 
"His  name  is  on  the  door." 


170          THE  ASHES  IN  THE  SEA 

My  love  then  straightway  entered  there: 
She  hath  come  back  no  more. 

Lizette  Woodwortk  Reese. 


THE  OUTER  GATE 

LIFE  said:  "My  house  is  thine  with  all  its  store; 

Behold  I  open  shining  ways  to  thee  — 

Of  every  inner  portal  make  thee  free: 
O  child,  I  may  not  bar  the  outer  door. 
Go  from  me  if  thou  wilt,  to  come  no  iL.ore; 

But  all  thy  pain  is  mine,  thy  flesh  of  me; 

And  must  I  hear  thee,  faint  and  woefully, 
Call  on  me  from  the  darkness  and  implore?" 

Nay,  mother,  for  I  follow  at  thy  will. 

But  oftentimes  thy  voice  is  sharp  to  hear, 

Thy  trailing  fragrance  heavy  on  the  breath; 
Always  the  outer  hall  is  very  still, 

And  on  my  face  a  pleasant  wind  and  clear 
x    Blows  straitly  from  the  narrow  gate  of  Death. 

Nora  May  French. 

THE  ASHES  IN  THE  SEA 

N.  M.  F. 
WHITHER,  with  blue  and  pleading  eyes,  — 

Whither,  with  cheeks  that  held  the  light 
Of  winter's  dawn  in  cloudless  skies, 

Evadne,  was  thy  flight? 

Such  as  a  sister's  was  thy  brow; 
LThy  hair  seemed  fallen  from  the  moon  — 


THE   ASHES   IN   THE   SEA          171 

Part  of  its  radiance,  as  now, 
Of  shifting  tide  and  dune. 

Did  Autumn's  grieving  lure  thee  hence. 

Or  silence  ultimate  beguile? 
Ever  our  things  of  consequence 

Awakened  but  thy  smile. 

Is  it  with  thee  that  ocean  takes 

A  stranger  sorrow  to  its  tone? 
With  thee  the  star  of  evening  wakes 

More  beautiful,  more  lone? 

For  wave  and  hill  and  sky  betray 
A  subtle  tinge  and  touch  of  thee; 

Thy  shadow  lingers  in  the  day, 
Thy  voice  in  winds  to  be. 

Beauty  —  hast  thou  discovered  her 
By  deeper  seas  no  moons  control? 

What  stars  have  magic  now  to  stir 
Thy  swift  and  wilful  soul? 

Or  may  thy  heart  no  more  forget 

The  grievous  world  that  once  was  home. 

That  here,  where  love  awaits  thee  yet, 
Thou  seemest  yet  to  roam? 

For  most,  far-wandering,  I  guess 
Thy  witchery  on  the  haunted  mind, 

In  valleys  of  thy  loneliness, 
Made  clean  with  ocean's  wind. 


172  DEPARTURE 


And  most  thy  presence  here  seems  told, 

A  waif  of  elemental  deeps, 
When,  at  its  vigils  unconsoled, 

Some  night  of  winter  weeps. 

George  Sterling. 


"WE  NEEDS  MUST  BE  DIVIDED  IN  THE 
TOMB" 

WE  needs  must  be  divided  in  the  tomb, 
For  I  would  die  among  the  hills  of  Spain, 
And  o'er  the  treeless,  melancholy  plain 

Await  the  coming  of  the  final  gloom. 

But  thou  —  O  pitiful !  —  wilt  find  scant  room 
Among  thy  kindred  by  the  northern  main, 
And  fade  into  the  drifting  mist  again, 

The  hemlocks'  shadow,  or  the  pines'  perfume. 

Let  gallants  lie  beside  their  ladies'  dust 
In  one  cold  grave,  with  mortal  love  inurned; 

Let  the  sea  part  our  ashes,  if  it  must, 

The  souls  fled  thence  which  love  immortal  burned, 

For  they  were  wedded  without  bond  of  lust, 
And  nothing  of  our  heart  to  earth  returned. 

George  Santayana. 


DEPARTURE 

MY  true  love  from  her  pillow  rose 

And  wandered  down  the  summer  lane. 

She  left  her  house  to  the  wind's  carouse, 
And  her  chamber  wide  to  the  rain. 


THE  INVISIBLE  BRIDE  173 

She  did  not  stop  to  don  her  coat, 

She  did  not  stop  to  smooth  her  bed  — 

But  out  she  went  in  glad  content 
There  where  the  bright  path  led. 

She  did  not  feel  the  beating  storm, 

But  fled  like  a  sunbeam,  white  and  frail, 

To  the  sea,  to  the  air,  somewhere,  somewhere  — 
I  have  not  found  her  trail. 

Hermann  Hagedorn, 

SONG 

SHE'S  somewhere  in  the  sunlight  strong, 

Her  tears  are  in  the  falling  rain, 
She  calls  me  in  the  wind's  soft  song, 

And  with  the  flowers  she  comes  again. 

Yon  bird  is  but  her  messenger, 

The  moon  is  but  her  silver  car; 
Yea!  Sun  and  moon  are  sent  by  her, 

And  every  wistful,  waiting  star. 

Richard  Le  Gallienm 


THE  INVISIBLE  BRIDE 

THE  low-voiced  girls  that  go 

In  gardens  of  the  Lord, 
Like  flowers  of  the  field  they  grow 

In  sisterly  accord. 

Their  whispering  feet  are  white 
Along  the  leafy  ways; 


174  THE  INVERTED  TORCH 

They  go  in  whirls  of  light 
Too  beautiful  for  praise. 

And  in  their  band  forsooth 

Is  one  to  set  me  free  — 
The  one  that  touched  my  youth  — 

The  one  God  gave  to  me. 

She  kindles  the  desire 

Whereby  the  gods  survive  — 

The  white  ideal  fire 

That  keeps  my  soul  alive. 

Now  at  the  wondrous  hour, 
She  leaves  her  star  supreme, 

And  comes  in  the  night's  still  power, 
To  touch  me  with  a  dream. 

Sibyl  of  mystery 

On  roads  unknown  to  men, 
Softly  she  comes  to  me, 

And  goes  to  God  again. 

Edwin  Markham* 


THE  INVERTED  TORCH 

THREADING  a  darksome  passage  all  alone, 
The  taper's  flame,  by  envious  current  blown. 
Crouched  low,  and  eddied  round,  as  in  affright, 
So  challenged  by  the  vast  and  hostile  night, 
Then  down  I  held  the  taper;  —  swift  and  fain 
Up  climbed  the  lovely  flower  of  light  again! 


THE  MYSTIC  175 

Thou  Kindler  of  the  spark  of  life  divine, 

Be  henceforth  the  Inverted  Torch  a  sign 

That,  though  the  flame  beloved  thou  dost  depress, 

Thou  wilt  not  speed  it  into  nothingness; 

But  out  of  nether  gloom  wilt  reinspire, 

And  homeward  lift  the  keen  empyreal  fire! 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


NIGHT'S  MARDI  GRAS 

NIGHT  is  the  true  democracy.  When  day 

Like  some  great  monarch  with  his  train  has  passed, 
In  regal  pomp  and  splendor  to  the  last, 

The  stars  troop  forth  along  the  Milky  Way, 

A  jostling  crowd,  in  radiant  disarray, 

On  heaven's  broad  boulevard  in  pageants  vast. 
And  things  of  earth,  the  hunted  and  outcast, 

Come  from  their  haunts  and  hiding-places;  yea, 

Even  from  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  the  mind 
Visions  uncouth  and  vagrant  fancies  start, 
And  specters  of  dead  joy,  that  shun  the  light, 

And  impotent  regrets  and  terrors  blind, 

Each  one,  in  form  grotesque,  playing  its  part 
In  the  fantastic  Mardi  Gras  of  Night. 

Edward  J.  Wheeler. 


THE  MYSTIC 

THERE  is  a  quest  that  calls  me, 

In  nights  when  I  am  lone, 
The  need  to  ride  where  the  ways  divide 

The  Known  from  the  Unknown. 


176  THE  MYSTIC 


I  mount  what  thought  is  near  me 

And  soon  I  reach  the  place, 
The  tenuous  rim  where  the  Seen  grows  dim 

And  the  Sightless  hides  its  face. 

7  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  sea, 

I  have  ridden  the  moon  and  stars. 

I  have  set  my  feet  in  the  stirrup  seat 

Of  a  comet  coursing  Mars. 

And  everywhere 

Thro*  the  earth  and  air 

My  thought  speeds,  lightning -shod, 

It  comes  to  a  place  where  checking  pace 

It  cries,  "Beyond  lies  God!" 

It  calls  me  out  of  the  darkness, 

It  calls  me  out  of  sleep, 
"Ride!  ride!  for  you  must,  to  the  end  of  Dust!" 

It  bids  —  and  on  I  sweep 
To  the  wide  outposts  of  Being, 

Where  there  is  Gulf  alone  — 
And  thro'  a  Vast  that  was  never  passed 

I  listen  for  Life's  tone. 

/  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  night, 

I  have  ridden  the  ghosts  that  flee 

From  the  vaults  of  death  like  a  chilling  breath 

Over  eternity. 

And  everywhere 

Is  the  world  laid  bare  — 

Ether  and  star  and  clod  — 


I  WOULD   I  MIGHT  FORGET         177 

Until  I  wind  to  its  brink  and  find 
But  the  cry,  "Beyond  lies  God!" 

It  calls  me  and  ever  calls  me! 

And  vainly  I  reply, 
"Fools  only  ride  where  the  ways  divide 

What  Is  from  the  Whence  and  Why"! 
I'm  lifted  into  the  saddle 

Of  thoughts  too  strong  to  tame 
And  down  the  deeps  and  over  the  steeps 

I  find  —  ever  the  same. 

7  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  stars, 

I  have  ridden  the  force  that  flies 

With  far  intent  thro'  the  firmament 

And  ea,ch  to  each  allies. 

And  everywhere 

That  a  thought  may  dare 

To  gallop,  mine  has  trod  — 

Only  to  stand  at  last  on  the  strand 

Where  just  beyond  lies  God. 

Gale  Young  Rice. 


"I  WOULD  I  MIGHT  FORGET  THAT  I  AM  I" 

I  WOULD  I  might  forget  that  I  am  I, 

And  break  the  heavy  chain  that  binds  me  fast, 
Whose  links  about  myself  my  deeds  have  cast. 
What  in  the  body's  tomb  doth  buried  lie 
Is  boundless;  't  is  the  spirit  of  the  sky, 
Lord  of  the  future,  guardian  of  the  past, 


178 TO  WILLIAM  SHARP 

And  soon  must  forth,  to  know  his  own  at  last. 
In  his  large  life  to  live,  I  fain  would  die. 

Happy  the  dumb  beast,  hungering  for  food, 
But  calling  not  his  suffering  his  own; 

Blessed  the  angel,  gazing  on  all  good, 
But  knowing  not  he  sits  upon  a  throne; 

Wretched  the  mortal,  pondering  his  mood, 
And  doomed  to  know  his  aching  heart  alone. 

George  Santayana, 

TO  WILLIAM  SHARP 

(Fiona  Macleod) 

THE  waves  about  lona  dirge, 

The  wild  winds  trumpet  over  Skye; 

Shrill  around  Arran's  cliff-bound  verge 
The  gray  gulls  cry. 

Spring  wraps  its  transient  scarf  of  green, 
Its  heathery  robe,  round  slope  and  scar; 

And  night,  the  scudding  wrack  between, 
Lights  its  lone  star. 

But  you  who  loved  tjiese  outland  isles, 

Their  gleams,  their  glooms,  their  mysteries.. 

Their  eldritch  lures,  their  druid  wiles, 
Their  tragic  seas, 

Will  heed  no  more,  in  mortal  guise, 
The  potent  witchery  of  their  call, 

If  dawn  be  regnant  in  the  skies, 
Or  even  fall. 


THE  QUIET  SINGER  17S 

Yet,  though  where  suns  Sicilian  beam 
The  loving  earth  enfolds  your  form, 

I  can  but  deem  these  coasts  of  dream 
And  hovering  storm 

Still  thrall  your  spirit  —  that  it  bides 
By  far  lona's  kelp-strewn  shore, 

There  lingering  till  time  and  tides 
Shall  surge  no  more. 

Clinton  Scollard. 

THE  QUIET  SINGER 

(Ave!  Francis  Thompson) 

HE  had  been  singing  —  but  I  had  not  heard  his  voices 

He  had  been  weaving  lovely  dreams  of  song, 

O  many  a  morning  long. 

But  I,  remote  and  far, 

Under  an  alien  star, 

Listened  to  other  singers,  other  birds, 

And  other  silver  words. 

But  does  the  skylark,  singing  sweet  and  clear, 

Beg  the  cold  world  to  hear? 

Rather  he  sings  for  very  rapture  of  singing, 

At  dawn,  or  in  the  blue,  mild  Summer  noon, 

Knowing  that,  late  or  soon, 

His  wealth  of  beauty,  and  his  high  notes,  ringing 

Above  the  earth,  will  make  some  heart  rejoice. 

He  sings,  albeit  alone, 

Spendthrift  of  each  pure  tone, 

Hoarding  no  single  song, 

No  cadence  wild  and  strong. 

But  one  day,  from  a  friend  far  overseas, 


180  THE  QUIET   SINGER 

As  if  upon  the  breeze, 

There  came  the  teeming  wonder  of  his  words  — 

A  golden  troop  of  birds, 

Caged  in  a  little  volume  made  to  love; 

Singing,  singing, 

Flinging,  flinging 

Their  breaking  hearts  on  mine,  and  swiftly  bringing 

Tears,  and  the  peace  thereof. 

How  the  world  woke  anew! 

How  the  days  broke  anew! 

Before  my  tear-blind  eyes  a  tapestry 

I  seemed  to  see, 

Woven  of  all  the  dreams  dead  or  to  be. 

Hills,  hills  of  song,  Springs  of  eternal  bloom, 

Autumns  of  golden  pomp  and  purple  gloom 

Were  hung  upon  his  loom. 

Winters  of  pain,  roses  with  awful  thorns, 

Yet  wondrous  faith  in  God's  dew-drenched  morns  — ° 

These,  all  these  I  saw, 

With  that  ecstatic  awe 

Wherewith  one  looks  into  Eternity. 

And  then  I  knew  that,  though  I  had  not  heard 

His  voice  before, 

His  quiet  singing,  like  some  quiet  bird 

At  some  one's  distant  door, 

Had  made  my  own  more  sweet;  had  made  it  more 

Lovely,  in  one  of  God's  miraculous  ways. 

I  knew  then  why  the  days 

Had  seemed  to  me  more  perfect  when  the  Spring 

Came  with  old  bourgeoning; 

For  somewhere  in  the  world  his  voice  was  raised, 

And  somewhere  in  the  world  his  heart  was  breaking; 


AFTER  A  DOLMETSCH  CONCERT    181 

And  never  a  flower  but  knew  it,  sweetly  taking 
Beauty  more  high  and  noble  for  his  sake, 
As  a  whole  wood  grows  lovelier  for  the  wail 
Of  one  sad  nightingale. 

Yet  if  the  Springs  long  past 

Seemed  wonderful  before  I  heard  his  voice, 

I  tremble  at  the  beauty  I  shall  see 

In  seasons  still  to  be, 

Now  that  his  songs  are  mine  while  Life  shall  last» 

O  now  for  me 

New  floods  of  vision  open  suddenly  .  .  . 

Rejoice,  my  heart!  Rejoice 

That  you  have  heard  the  Quiet  Singer's  voice ! 

Charles  Hanson  Towne» 


AFTER  A  DOLMETSCH  CONCERT 

OUT  of  the  conquered  Past 

Unravishable  Beauty; 
Hearts  that  are  dew  and  dust 

Rebuking  the  dream  of  Death; 
Flower  o'  the  clay  downcast 

Triumphant  in  Earth's  aroma; 
Strings  that  were  strained  in  rust 

A- tremble  with  Music's  breath! 

Wine  that  was  spilt  in  haste 
Arising  in  fumes  more  precious; 

Garlands  that  fell  forgot 
Rooting  to  wondrous  bloom; 

Youth  that  would  flow  to  waste 
Pausing  in  pool-green  valleys  — » 


182 MINIVER  CHEEVY 

And  Passion  that  lasted  not 
Surviving  the  voiceless  Tomb ! 

Arthur  Upson. 

ON  A  FLY-LEAF  OF  BURNS'  SONGS 

THESE  are  the  best  of  him, 
Pathos  and  jest  of  him; 
Earth  holds  the  rest  of  him. 

Passions  were  strong  in  him,  — 
Pardon  the  wrong  in  him; 
Hark  to  the  song  in  him !  — 

Each  little  lyrical 
Grave  or  satirical 
Musical  miracle! 

Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles. 


MINIVER  CHEEVY 

MINIVER  CHEEVY,  child  of  scorn, 

Grew  lean  while  he  assailed  the  seasons; 

He  wept  that  he  was  ever  born, 
And  he  had  reasons. 

Miniver  loved  the  days  of  old 

When  swords  were  bright  and  steeds  were  prancing: 
The  vision  of  a  warrior  bold 

Would  set  him  dancing. 

Miniver  sighed  for  what  was  not, 

And  dreamed,  and  rested  from  his  labors; 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY        183 

He  dreamed  of  Thebes  and  Camelot, 
And  Priam's  neighbors. 

Miniver  mourned  the  ripe  renown 

That  made  so  many  a  name  so  fragrant; 

He  mourned  Romance,  now  on  the  town, , 
And  Art,  a  vagrant. 

Miniver  loved  the  Medici, 

Albeit  he  had  never  seen  one; 
He  would  have  sinned  incessantly 

Could  he  have  been  one. 

Miniver  cursed  the  commonplace 
And  eyed  a  khaki  suit  with  loathing; 

He  missed  the  mediaeval  grace 
Of  iron  clothing. 

Miniver  scorned  the  gold  he  sought, 
But  sore  annoyed  was  he  without  it; 

Miniver  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought, 
And  thought  about  it. 

Miniver  Cheevy,  born  too  late, 

Scratched  his  head  and  kept  on  thinking; 
Miniver  coughed,  and  called  it  fate, 

And  kept  on  drinking. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson* 

AT  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

THERE  is  no  escape  by  the  river, 
There  is  no  flight  left  by  the  fen; 


184   AT  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

We  are  compassed  about  by  the  shiver 

Of  the  night  of  their  marching  men. 

Give  a  cheer! 

For  our  hearts  shall  not  give  way. 

Here's  to  a  dark  to-morrow, 

And  here's  to  a  brave  to-day! 

The  tale  of  their  hosts  is  countless, 

And  the  tale  of  ours  a  score; 

But  the  palm  is  naught  to  the  dauntless, 

And  the  cause  is  more  and  more. 

Give  a  cheer! 

We  may  die,  but  not  give  way. 

Here's  to  a  silent  morrow, 

And  here 's  to  a  stout  to-day ! 

God  has  said:  "Ye  shall  fail  and  perish; 
But  the  thrill  ye  have  felt  to-night 
I  shall  keep  in  my  heart  and  cherish 
When  the  worlds  have  passed  in  night." 
Give  a  cheer! 

For  the  soul  shall  not  give  way. 
Here 's  to  the  greater  to-morrow 
That  is  born  of  a  great  to-day ! 

Now  shame  on  the  craven  truckler 
And  the  puling  things  that  mope! 
We  've  a  rapture  for  our  buckler 
That  outwears  the  wings  of  hope. 
Give  a  cheer! 

For  our  joy  shall  not  give  way. 
Here's  in  the  teeth  of  to-morrow 
To  the  glory  of  to-day ! 

Richard  Hovey. 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  HILLS  185 

THE  JOY  OF  THE  HILLS 

I  RIDE  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes  — 

Lightly  I  sweep 

From  steep  to  steep: 
Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks; 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass; 
A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 

Life's  hoard  of  regret  — 

All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind: 

I  leave  you  a  blur  behind. 
I  am  lifted  elate  —  the  skies  expand: 
Here  the  world 's  heaped  gold  is  a  pile  of  sand. 
Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their  narrow  walls: 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls ! 

I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream  —  I  swing 
Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing! 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word : 
My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart  a  bird! 

Edwin  Markham. 


186          THE  LESSER  CHILDREN 
THE  LESSER  CHILDREN 

A   THRENODY   AT  THE   HUNTING    SEASON 

IN  the  middle  of  August  when  the  southwest  wind 

Blows  after  sunset  through  the  leisuring  air, 

And  on  the  sky  nightly  the  mythic  hind 

Leads  down  the  sullen  dog  star  to  his  lair, 

After  the  feverous  vigil  of  July, 

When  the  loud  pageant  of  the  year's  high  noon 

Passed  up  the  ways  of  time  to  sing  and  part, 

Grief  also  wandered  by 

From  out  the  lovers  and  the  leaves  of  June, 

And  by  the  wizard  spices  of  his  hair 

I  knew  his  heart  was  very  Love's  own  heart. 

Deep  within  dreams  he  led  me  out  of  doors 

As  from  the  upper  vault  the  night  outpours, 

And  when  I  saw  that  to  him  all  the  skies 

Yearned  as  a  sea  asleep  yearns  to  its  shores, 

fle  took  a  little  clay  and  touched  my  eyes. 

What  saw  I  then,  what  heard? 

Multitudes,  multitudes,  under  the  moon  they  stirred! 

The  weaker  brothers  of  our  earthly  breed; 

Watchmen  of  whom  our  safety  takes  no  heed; 

Swift  helpers  of  the  wind  that  sowed  the  seed 

Before  the  first  field  was  or  any  fruit; 

Warriors  against  the  bivouac  of  the  weed; 

Earth's  earliest  ploughmen  for  the  tender  root, 

All  came  about  my  head  and  at  my  feet 

A  thousand,  thousand  sweet, 

With  starry  eyes  not  even  raised  to  plead; 

Bewildered,  driven,  hiding,  fluttering,  mute! 


THE  LESSER   CHILDREN          187 

And  I  beheld  and  saw  them  one  by  one 
Pass  and  become  as  nothing  in  the  night. 
Clothed  on  with  red  they  were  who  once  were  white; 
Drooping,  who  once  led  armies  to  the  sun, 
Of  whom  the  lowly  grass  now  topped  the  flight: 
[n  scarlet  faint,  who  once  were  brave  in  brown; 
Climbers  and  builders  of  the  silent  town, 
Creepers  and  burrowers  all  in  crimson  dye, 
Winged  mysteries  of  song  that  from  the  sky 
Once  dashed  long  music  down. 

O  who  would  take  away  music  from  the  earth? 

Have  we  so  much?  Or  love  upon  the  hearth? 

No  more  —  they  faded ; 

The  great  trees  bending  between  birth  and  birth 

Sighed  for  them,  and  the  night  wind's  hoarse  rebuff 

Shouted  the  shame  of  which  I  was  persuaded. 

Shall  Nature's  only  pausing  be  by  men  invaded? 

Or  shall  we  lay  grief's  fagots  on  her  shoulders  bare? 

Has  she  not  borne  enough? 

Soon  will  the  mirroring  woodland  pools  begin  to  con 

her, 

And  her  sad  immemorial  passion  come  upon  her; 
Lo,  would  you  add  despair  unto  despair? 
Shall  not  the  Spring  be  answer  to  her  prayer? 
Must  her  uncomforted  heavens  overhead, 
Weeping,  look  down  on  tears  and  still  behold 
Only  wings  broken  or  a  fledgling  dead, 
Or  underfoot  the  meadows  that  wore  gold 
Die,  and  the  leaves  go  mourning  to  the  mould 
Beneath  poor  dead  and  desperate  feet 
Of  folk  who  in  next  summer's  meadows  shall  not  meet? 


188       THE  LESSER  CHILDREN 

Who  has  not  seen  in  the  high  gulf  of  light 

What,  lower,  was  a  bird,  but  now 

Is  moored  and  altered  quite 

Into  an  island  of  unshaded  joy? 

To  whom  the  mate  below  upon  the  bough 

Shouts  once  and  brings  him  from  his  high  employ. 

Yet  speeding  he  forgot  not  of  the  cloud 

Where  he  from  glory  sprang  and  burned  aloud, 

But  took  a  little  of  the  day, 

A  little  of  the  colored  sky, 

And  of  the  joy  that  would  not  stay 

He  wove  a  song  that  cannot  die. 

Then,  then  —  the  unfathomable  shame; 

The  one  last  wrong  arose  from  out  the  flame, 

The  ravening  hate  that  hated  not  was  hurled 

Bidding  the  radiant  love  once  more  beware, 

Bringing  one  more  loneliness  on  the  world, 

And  one  more  blindness  in  the  unseen  air. 

Nor  may  the  smooth  regret,  the  pitying  oath 

Shed  on  such  utter  bitter  any  leaven. 

Only  the  pleading  flowers  that  knew  them  both 

Hold  all  their  bloody  petals  up  to  heaven. 

Winds  of  the  fall  that  all  year  to  and  fro 

Somewhere  upon  the  earth  go  wandering, 

You  saw,  you  moaned,  you  know: 

Withhold  not  then  unto  all  time  to  tell 

Lest  unborn  others  of  us  see  this  thing. 

Bring  our  sleek,  comfortable  reason  low: 

Recount  how  souls  grown  tremulous  as  a  bell 

Came  forth  each  other  and  the  day  to  greet 

In  morning  air  all  Indian-Summer  sweet, 

And  crept  upstream,  through  wood  or  field  or  brake, 


THE   LESSER  CHILDREN  189 

Most  tremblingly  to  take 

What  crumbs  that  from  the  Master's  table  fell. 

Cry  with  what  thronging  thunders  they  were  met, 

And  hide  not  how  the  least  leaf  was  made  wet. 

Cry  till  no  watcher  says  that  all  is  well 

With  raucous  discord  through  the  leaning  spheres. 

But  tell 

With  tears,  with  tears 

How  the  last  man  is  harmed  even  as  they 

Who  on  these  dawns  are  fire,  at  dusk  are  clay. 

Record  the  dumb  and  wise, 

No  less  than  those  who  lived  in  singing  guise, 

Whose  choric  hearts  lit  each  wild  green  arcade. 

Make  men  to  see  their  eyes, 

Forced  to  suspect  behind  each  reed  or  rose 

The  thorn  of  lurking  foes. 

And  O,  before  the  daylight  goes, 

After  the  deed  against  the  skies, 

After  the  last  belief  and  longing  dies, 

Make  men  again  to  see  their  eyes 

Whose  piteous  casements  now  all  unafraid 

Peer  out  to  that  far  verge  where  evermore, 

Beyond  all  woe  for  which  a  tear  atones, 

The  likeness  of  our  own  dishonor  moans, 

A  sea  that  has  no  bottom  and  no  shore. 

What  shall  be  done 

By  you,  shy  folk  who  cease  thus  heart  by  heart? 

You  for  whose  fate  such  fate  forever  hovers? 

O  little  lovers, 

If  you  would  still  have  nests  beneath  the  sun 

Gather  your  broods  about  you  and  depart, 

Before  the  stony  forward-pressing  faces 


190          THE  LESSER  CHILDREN 

Into  the  lands  bereft  of  any  sound; 

The  solemn  and  compassionate  desert  places. 

Give  unto  men  no  more  the  strong  delight 

To  know  that  underneath  the  frozen  ground 

Dwells  the  warm  life  and  all  the  quick,  pure  lore. 

Take  from  our  eyes  the  glory  of  great  flight. 

Let  us  behold  no  more 

People  untroubled  by  a  Fate's  veiled  eyes, 

Leave  us  upon  an  earth  of  faith  forlorn. 

No  more  wild  tidings  from  the  sweet  far  skies 

Of  love's  long  utmost  heavenward  endeavor. 

So  shall  the  silence  pour  on  us  forever 

The  streaming  arrows  of  unutterable  scorn. 

Nor  shall  the  cry  of  famine  be  a  shield 

The  altar  of  a  brutish  mood  to  hide. 

Stains,  stains,  upon  the  lintels  of  our  doors 

Wail  to  be  justified. 

Shall  there  be  mutterings  at  the  seasons'  yield? 

Has  eye  of  man  seen  bared  the  granary  floors? 

Are  the  fields  wasted?  Spilled  the  oil  and  wine? 

Is  the  fat  seed  under  the  clod  decayed? 

Does  ever  the  fig  tree  languish  or  the  vine? 

Who  has  beheld  the  harvest  promise  fade  ? 

Or  any  orchard  heavy  with  fruit  asway 

Withered  away? 

No,  not  these  things,  but  grosser  things  than  these 

Are  the  dim  parents  of  a  guilt  not  dim; 

Ancestral  urges  out  of  old  caves  blowing, 

When  Fear  watched  at  our  coming  and  our  going 

The  horror  of  the  chattering  face  of  Whim. 

Hates,  cruelties  new  fallen  from  the  trees 

Whereto  we  clung  with  impulse  sad  for  love, 


THE   LESSER   CHILDREN  19! 

Shames  we  have  had  all  time  to  rid  us  of, 
Disgraces  cold  and  sorrows  long  bewept, 
Recalled,  revived,  and  kept, 
Unmeaning  quarrels,  blood-compelling  lust, 
And  snarling  woes  from  our  old  home,  the  dust. 

Yet  even  of  these  one  saving  shape  may  rise; 

Fear  may  unveil  our  eyes. 

For  know  you  not  what  curse  of  blight  would  fall 

Upon  a  land  lorn  of  the  sweet  sky  races 

Who  day  and  night  keep  ward  and  seneschal 

Upon  the  treasury  of  the  planted  spaces? 

Then  would  the  locust  have  his  fill, 

And  the  blind  worm  lay  tithe, 

The  unfed  stones  rot  in  the  listless  mill, 

The  sound  of  grinding  cease. 

No  yearning  gold  would  whisper  to  the  scythe, 

Hunger  at  last  would  prove  us  of  one  blood, 

The  shores  of  dream  be  drowned  in  tides  of  need. 

Horribly  would  the  whole  earth  be  at  peace. 

The  burden  of  the  grasshopper  indeed 

Weigh  down  the  green  corn  and  the  tender  bud, 

The  plague  of  Egypt  fall  upon  the  wheat, 

And  the  shrill  nit  would  batten  in  the  heat. 

But  you,  O  poor  of  deeds  and  rich  of  breath, 
Whose  eyes  have  made  our  eyes  a  hue  abhorred, 
Red,  eager  aids  of  aid-unneeding  Death, 
Hunters  before  the  Lord, 
If  on  the  flinted  marge  about  your  souls 
In  vain  the  heaving  tide  of  mourning  rolls, 
If  from  your  trails  unto  the  crimson  goals 
The  weeper  and  the  weeping  must  depart, 


192  A  VAGABOND  SONG 

If  lust  of  blood  come  on  you  like  a  fiery  dart 

And  darken  all  the  dark  autumnal  air, 

Then,  then  —  be  fair. 

Pluck  a  young  ash  tree  or  a  sapling  yew 

And  at  the  root  end  fix  an  iron  thorn, 

Then  forth  with  rocking  laughter  of  the  horn 

And  passing,  with  no  belling  retinue, 

All  timorous,  lesser  sippers  of  the  dew, 

Seek  out  some  burly  guardian  of  the  hills 

And  set  your  urgent  thew  against  his  thew. 

Then  shall  the  hidden  wisdoms  and  the  wills 

Strive,  and  bear  witness  to  the  trees  and  clods 

How  one  has  dumb  lore  of  the  rocks  and  swales 

And  one  has  reason  like  unto  the  gods. 

Then  shall  the  lagging  righteousness  ensue, 

The  powers  at  last  be  equal  in  the  scales, 

And  the  man's  club  and  the  beast's  claw  be  flails 

To  winnow  the  unworthy  of  the  two. 

Then  on  the  earth,  in  the  sky  and  the  heavenly  court 

That  broods  behind  it, 

Justice  shall  be  awakened  and  aware, 

Then  those  who  go  forth  greatly,  seeking  sport, 

Shall  doubtless  find  it, 

And  all  things  be  fair. 

Ridgely  Torrence. 

A  VAGABOND  SONG 

THERE  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to 

my  blood  — 

Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood; 
And  my  heart  is  like  a  rhyme, 
With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and   the  crimson 

keeping  time. 


"FROST  TO-NIGHT"  193 

The  scarlet  of  the  maples  can  shake  me  like  a  cry 

Of  bugles  going  by. 

And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 

To  see  the  frosty  asters  like  a  smoke  upon  the  hills. 

There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gypsy  blood 

astir; 

We  must  rise  and  follow  her, 
When  from  every  hill  of  flame 
She  calls  and  calls  each  vagabond  by  name. 

Bliss  Carman. 


SOMEWHERE 

THE  weasel  thieves  in  silver  suit, 

The  rabbit  runs  in  gray; 
And  Pan  takes  up  his  frosty  flute 

To  pipe  the  cold  away. 

The  flocks  are  folded,  boughs  are  bare, 

The  salmon  take  the  sea; 
And  O  my  fair,  would  I  somewhere 

Might'house  my  heart  with  thee ! 

John  Vance  Cheney, 


"FROST  TO-NIGHT" 

APPLE-GREEN  west  and  an  orange  bar, 

And  the  crystal  eye  of  a  lone,  one  star  .  .  . 

And,  "Child,  take  the  shears  and  cut  what  you  wu% 

Frost  to-night  —  so  clear  and  dead-still." 


194  UNDER  ARCTURUS 

Then,  I  sally  forth,  half  sad,  half  proud, 
And  I  come  to  the  velvet,  imperial  crowd, 
The  wine-red,  the  gold,  the  crimson,  the  pied,  — 
The  dahlias  that  reign  by  the  garden-side. 

The  dahlias  I  might  not  touch  till  to-night! 
A  gleam  of  the  shears  in  the  fading  light, 
And  I  gathered  them  all,  —  the  splendid  throng, 
And  in  one  great  sheaf  I  bore  them  along. 

In  my  garden  of  Life  with  its  all-late  flowers 
I  heed  a  Voice  in  the  shrinking  hours: 
"Frost  to-night  —  so  clear  and  dead-still"  .  .  . 
Half  sad,  half  proud,  my  arms  I  fill.   „ 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


UNDER  ARCTURUS 
I 

"I  BELT  the  morn  with  ribboned  mist; 

With  baldricked  blue  I  gird  the  noon, 
And  dusk  with  purple,  crimson-kissed, 
White-buckled  with  the  hunter's-moon* 

" These  follow  me,"  the  Season  says: 
"  Mine  is  the  frost-pale  hand  that  packs 
Their  scrips,  and  speeds  them  on  their  ways. 
With  gypsy  gold  that  weighs  their  backs." 

II 

A  daybreak  horn  the  Autumn  blows, 
As  with  a  sun-tanned  hand  he  parts 


UNDER  ARCTURUS  195 

Wet  boughs  whereon  the  berry  glows; 
And  at  his  feet  the  red  fox  starts. 

The  leafy  leash  that  holds  his  hounds 
Is  loosed;  and  all  the  noonday  hush 

Is  startled;  and  the  hillside  sounds 
Behind  the  fox's  bounding  brush. 

When  red  dusk  makes  the  western  sky 
A  fire-lit  window  through  the  firs, 

He  stoops  to  see  the  red  fox  die 
Among  the  chestnut's  broken  burrs. 

Then  fanfaree  and  fanfaree, 

His  bugle  sounds;  the  world  below 

Grows  hushed  to  hear;  and  two  or  three 
Soft  stars  dream  through  the  afterglow. 

Ill 

Like  some  black  host  the  shadows  fall, 
And  blackness  camps  among  the  trees; 

Each  wild  wood  road,  a  Goblin  Hall, 
Grows  populous  with  mysteries. 

Night  comes  with  brows  of  ragged  storm, 
And  limbs  of  writhen  cloud  arid  mist; 

The  rain-wind  hangs  upon  his  arm 
Like  some  wild  girl  who  cries  unkissed. 

By  his  gaunt  hands  the  leaves  are  shed 
In  headlong  troops  and  nightmare  herds; 

And,  like  a  witch  who  calls  the  dead, 

The  hill-stream  whirls  with  foaming  words* 


196  THE  RECESSIONAL 

Then  all  is  sudden  silence  and 

Dark  fear  —  like  his  who  cannot  see, 

Yet  hears,  lost  in  a  haunted  land, 
Death  rattling  on  a  gallow's-tree. 

IV 

The  days  approach  again;  the  days 

Whose  mantles  stream,  whose  sandals  dragp 

When  in  the  haze  by  puddled  ways 

The  gnarled  thorn  seems  a  crooked  hag. 

When  rotting  orchards  reek  with  rain; 

And  woodlands  crumble,  leaf  and  log; 
And  in  the  drizzling  yard  again 

The  gourd  is  tagged  with  points  of  fog. 

Now  let  me  seat  my  soul  among 

The  woods'  dim  dreams,  and  come  in  touch 
With  melancholy,  sad  of  tongue 

And  sweet,  who  says  so  much,  so  much. 

Madison  Cawein. 


THE  RECESSIONAL 

Now  along  the  solemn  heights 
Fade  the  Autumn's  altar-lights; 

Down  the  great  earth's  glimmering  chancel 
Glide  the  days  and  nights. 

Little  kindred  of  the  grass, 
Like  a  shadow  in  a  glass 

Falls  the  dark  and  falls  the  stillness; 
We  must  rise  and  pass. 


THE  RECESSIONAL  197 


We  must  rise  and  follow,  wending 

Where  the  nights  and  days  have  ending,  <-*=», 

Pass  in  order  pale  and  slow 
Unto  sleep  extending. 

Little  brothers  of  the  clod. 
Soul  of  fire  and  seed  of  sod, 

We  must  fare  into  the  silence 
At  the  knees  of  God. 

Little  comrades  of  the  sky, 
Wing  to  wing  we  wander  by, 
Going,  going,  going,  going, 
Softly  as  a  sigh. 

Hark,  the  moving  shapes  confer, 
Globe  of  dew  and  gossamer, 

Fading  and  ephemeral  spirits 
In  the  dusk  astir. 

Moth  and  blossom,  blade  and  bee, 
Worlds  must  go  as  well  as  we, 

In  the  long  procession  joining 
Mount  and  star  and  sea. 

Toward  the  shadowy  brink  we  climb 
Where  the  round  year  rolls  sublime, 
Rolls,  and  drops,  and  falls  forever 
In  the  vast  of  time. 

Like  a  plummet  plunging  deep 
Past  the  utmost  reach  of  sleep, 

Till  remembrance  has  no  longer 
Care  to  laugh  or  weep. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts. 


198  WINTER  SLEEP 

I  KNOW  NOT  WHY 

I  LIFT  mine  eyes  against  the  sky, 
The  clouds  are  weeping,  so  am  I; 
I  lift  mine  eyes  again  on  high, 
The  sun  is  smiling,  so  am  I. 
Why  do  I  smile?  Why  do  I  weep? 
I  do  not  know;  it  lies  too  deep. 

I  hear  the  winds  of  autumn  sigh, 

They  break  my  heart,  they  make  me  cry; 

I  hear  the  birds  of  lovely  spring, 

My  hopes  revive,  I  help  them  sing. 

Why  do  I  sing?  Why  do  I  cry? 

It  lies  so  deep,  I  know  not  why. 

Morris  Rosenfeld. 


WINTER  SLEEP 

1  KNOW  it  must  be  winter  (though  I  sleep)  — 
I  know  it  must  be  winter,  for  I  dream 
I  dip  my  bare  feet  in  the  running  stream, 
And  flowers  are  many,  and  the  grass  grows  deep. 

I  know  I  must  be  old  (how  age  deceives!) 

I  know  I  must  be  old,  for,  all  unseen, 

My  heart  grows  young,  as  autumn  fields  grow  greert 

When  late  rains  patter  on  the  falling  sheaves. 

I  know  I  must  be  tired  (and  tired  souls  err)  — 
I  know  I  must  be  tired,  for  all  my  soul 
To  deeds  of  daring  beats  a  glad,  faint  roll, 
As  storms  the  riven  pine  to  music  stir. 


TRYSTE  NOEL  199 


I  know  I  must  be  dying  (Death  draws  near)  — 
I  know  I  must  be  dying,  for  I  crave 
Life  —  life,  strong  life,  and  think  not  of  the  grave, 
turf-bound  silence,  in  the  frosty  year. 

Edith  M.  Thomas* 


TRYSTE  NOEL 

THE  Ox  he  openeth  wide  the  Doore, 

And  from  the  Snowe  he  calls  her  inne, 

And  he  hath  seen  her  Smile  therefor, 

Our  Ladye  without  Sinne. 

Now  soon  from  Sleep 

A  Starre  shall  leap, 

And  soone  arrive  both  King  and  Hinde: 

Amen,  Amen: 
But  O,  the  Place  co'd  I  but  finde! 

The  Ox  hath  hush'd  his  voyce  and  bent 

Trewe  eyes  of  Pitty  ore  the  Mow, 

And  on  his  lovelie  Neck,  forspent, 

The  Blessed  layes  her  Browe. 

Around  her  feet 

Full  Warme  and  Sweete 

His  bowerie  Breath  doth  meeklie  dwells 

Amen,  Amen: 
But  sore  am  I  with  Vaine  Travel ! 

The  Ox  is  host  in  Judah  stall 
And  Host  of  more  than  onelie  one. 
For  close  she  gathereth  withal 
Our  Lorde  her  littel  Sonne. 


200  HORA  CHRISTI 

Glad  Hinde  and  King 

Their  Gyfte  may  bring, 

But  wo'd  to-night  my  Teares  were  there, 

Amen,  Amen: 
Between  her  Bosom  and  His  hay  re! 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney- 

HORA  CHRISTI 

SWEET  is  the  time  for  joyous  folk 

Of  gifts  and  minstrelsy; 
Yet  I,  O  lowly-hearted  One, 

Crave  but  Thy  company. 
On  lonesome  road,  beset  with  dread, 

My  questing  lies  afar. 
I  have  no  light,  save  in  the  east 

The  gleaming  of  Thy  star. 

In  cloistered  aisles  they  keep  to-day 

Thy  feast,  O  living  Lord! 
With  pomp  of  banner,  pride  of  song, 

And  stately  sounding  word. 
Mute  stand  the  kings  of  power  and  place. 

While  priests  of  holy  mind 
Dispense  Thy  blessed  heritage 

Of  peace  to  all  mankind. 

I  know  a  spot  where  budless  twigs 

Are  bare  above  the  snow, 
And  where  sweet  winter-loving  birds 

Flit  softly  to  and  fro; 
There  with  the  sun  for  altar-fire, 

The  earth  for  kneeling-place, 


A  PARTING   GUEST  201 


The  gentle  air  for  chorister, 
Will  I  adore  Thy  face. 

Loud,  underneath  the  great  blue  sky, 

My  heart  shall  pa?an  sing, 
The  gold  and  myrrh  of  meekest  love 

Mine  only  offering. 
Bliss  of  Thy  birth  shall  quicken  me; 

And  for  Thy  pain  and  dole 
Tears  are  but  vain,  so  I  will  keep 

The  silence  of  the  soul. 

Alice  Brown. 


A  PARTING  GUEST 

WHAT  delightful  hosts  are  they  — 

Life  and  Love! 
Lingeringly  I  turn  away, 

This  late  hour,  yet  glad  enough 
They  have  not  withheld  from  me 

Their  high  hospitality. 
So,  with  face  lit  with  delight 

And  all  gratitude,  I  stay 

Yet  to  press  their  hands  and  say, 
"Thanks.  —  So  fine  a  time!  Good  night." 

James  Whitcomb  Riley0 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

BARKER,  ELSA.  Born  at  Leicester,  Vermont.  Received  her 
early  education  in  that  State.  After  a  short  period  of  teach- 
ing, she  became  a  newspaper  writer  and  contributed  to  vari- 
ous periodicals  and  syndicates.  Her  journalistic  period  closed 
with  editorial  work  upon  "Hampton's  Magazine"  in  1909 
and  1910.  Since  that  date  she  has  published  several  books  in 
different  fields  of  literature:  "The  Son  of  Mary  Bethel,"  a 
novel,  putting  the  character  of  Christ  in  modern  setting; 
"Stories  from  the  New  Testament,  for  Children";  "Letters 
of  a  Living  Dead  Man,"  psychic  communications  which  have 
attracted  much  attention;  and  in  poetry,  "The  Frozen  Grail, 
and  Other  Poems,"  1910;  "The  Book  of  Love,"  1912;  and 
"Songs  of  a  Vagrom  Angel,"  1916.  Mrs.  Barker's  poem,  "The 
Frozen  Grail,"  addressed  to  Peary,  the  explorer,  did  much, 
as  he  has  testified,  to  inspire  him,  and  was  upon  his  person 
when  he  finally  achieved  the  North  Pole. 

BRAITHWAITE,  WILLIAM  STANLEY.  Born  at  Boston,  De- 
cember 6,  1878.  Educated  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city. 
He  has  published  two  volumes  of  his  own  verse,  "Lyrics  of 
Life  and  Love,"  1904,  and  "The  House  of  Falling  Leaves," 
1908,  but  has  given  his  time  chiefly  to  editorial  and  critical 
work.  Mr.  Braithwaite  edited  three  excellent  anthologies: 
"The  Book  of  Elizabethan  Verse,"  "The  Book  of  Restoration 
Verse,"  and  "The  Book  of  Georgian  Verse,"  but  has  turned 
his  entire  attention,  for  several  years  past,  to  contemporary 
American  poetry,  having  founded  and  edited  "The  Poetry 
Journal  of  Boston,"  "The  Poetry  Review  of  America,"  etc. 
Mr.  Braithwaite  summarizes  each  year  for  the  "Boston 
Transcript"  the  poetic  output  of  the  American  magazines, 
and  publishes,  in  an  "Anthology  of  Magazine  Verse/'  what 
he  regards  as  the  best  poems  printed  in  our  periodicals  dur- 
ing the  year. 

BRANCH,  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD.  Born  at  Hempstead  House, 
New  London,  Connecticut.  Graduated  from  Smith  College 
in  1897  and  from  the  American  Academy  of  Dramatic  Art 
in  New  York  City  in  1900.  While  at  college  she  began  writ- 
ing poetry,  and  the  year  after  her  graduation  won  the  first 
prize  awarded  by  the  "Century  Magazine"  for  a  poem  writ- 
ten by  a  college  graduate.  This  poem,  "The  Road  'Twixt 
Heaven  and  Hell,"  was  printed  in  the  "Century  Magazine" 
for  December,  1898,  and  was  followed  soon  after  by  the  pub» 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  203 

lication  of  Miss  Branch's  first  volume,  "The  Heart  of  the 
Road,"  1901.  She  has  since  published  two  volumes,  "The 
Shoes  that  Danced,"  1902,  and  "Rose  of  the  Wind,"  1910, 
both  marked  by  imagination  and  beauty  of  a  high  order. 

BROWN,  ALICE.  Born  at  Hampton  Falls,  New  Hampshire, 
December  5,  1857.  Educated  at  Robinson  Seminary,  Exeter. 
She  is  chiefly  known  as  a  novelist,  having  written  with  great 
art  of  the  life  of  New  England.  Among  her  best-known  vol- 
umes are  "Meadow  Grass,"  a  collection  of  short  stories; 
"Tiverton  Tales";  "The  Mannerings";  "Margaret  War- 
rener";  "Rose  MacLeod";  "My  Love  and  I,"  etc.  In  1915 
Miss  Brown  received  a  prize  of  $10,000,  given  by  Winthrop 
Ames,  for  the  best  play  submitted  to  him  by  an  American 
writer.  This  drama,  "Children  of  Earth,"  was  produced  the 
following  season  at  the  Booth  Theater  in  New  York.  In 
poetry  Miss  Brown  has  done  but  one  volume,  "The  Road  to 
Castaly,"  1896,  reprinted  with  new  poems  in  1917,  but  this 
is  so  fine  in  quality  as  to  give  her  a  distinct  place  among 
American  poets. 

BURTON,  RICHARD.  Born  at  Hartford,  Connecticut,  March 
14, 1859.  Received  the  degree  of  A.B.  from  Trinity  College  in 
1883  and  of  Ph.D.  from  Johns  Hopkins  University  in  1888. 
He  entered  journalism  and  became  for  a  short  time  managing 
editor  of  "The  Churchman,"  leaving  this  position  to  become 
literary  editor  of  the  "  Hartford  Courant,"  where  he  remained 
from  1890  to  1897.  During  this  period  he  was  also  associate 
editor  of  the  "Warner  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Litera- 
ture." In  1902  he  went  to  Boston  as  literary  editor  of  the 
Lothrop  Publishing  Company,  remaining  until  1904.  Previ- 
ous to  this  time,  Dr.  Burton  had  been  lecturing  widely  upon 
poetry  and  the  drama  and  spent  the  succeeding  two  years 
chiefly  engaged  in  this  work.  In  1906  he  became  the  head  of 
the  English  Department  of  the  University  of  Minnesota, 
which  position  he  still  holds,  although  the  scholastic  year  is 
broken  annually  by  a  lecture  tour  through  the  East.  Dr. 
Burton  has  published  many  volumes  of  poetry  and  several 
upon  the  drama.  Among  the  former  one  may  cite  as  most 
representative:  "Dumb  in  June,"  1895;  "Lyrics  of  Brother- 
hood," 1899;  "Message  and  Melody,"  1903;  "Rahab:  A 
Poetic  Drama,"  1906;  "From  the  Book  of  Life,"  1909;  and 
"A  Midsummer  Memory,"  an  elegy  upon  the  untimely 
death  of  Arthur  Upson,  1910. 

BYNNER,  WITTER.  Born  at  Brooklyn,  New  York,  August 
10,  1881.  Graduated  at  Harvard  University  in  1902.  After 
his  graduation  he  became  assistant  editor  of  "McClure's 
Magazine"  and  literary  editor  of  McClure,  Phillips  &  Com- 
pany until  1906.  Since  that  period  he  has  devoted  himself 


204  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


chiefly  to  the  writing  of  poetry  and  poetic  drama.  His  first 
volume,  "An  Ode  to  Harvard,  and  Other  Poems,"  was  pub- 
lished in  1907.  This  has  been  followed  by  the  poetic  dramas, 
"Tiger,"  1913,  and  "The  Little  King,"  1917,  both  of  which 
have  had  stage  presentation,  and  by  "The  New  World," 
1915,  amplified  from  his  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Poem  delivered 
at  Harvard  in  1911. 

CARMAN,  BLISS.  Although  so  long  a  resident  of  America 
that  he  belongs  among  our  poets,  Bliss  Carman  was  born  at 
Fredericton,  New  Brunswick,  April  15,  1861.  He  received 
the  degree  of  A.B.  from  the  University  of  New  Brunswick  in 
1881  and  of  A.M.  in  1884.  He  studied  also  at  Harvard  and 
at  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Like  most  poets,  Mr.  Car- 
man served  his  period  in  journalism,  being  office  editor  of 
"The  Independent"  from  1890  to  1892,  and  editor  of  "The 
Chap-Book"  in  1894.  He  has,  however,  given  almost  his  sole 
allegiance  to  poetry  and  has  published  many  books,  chiefly  of 
nature,  interspersed  now  and  then  with  volumes  dealing  with 
myth  or  mysticism.  His  first  volume  was  "Low  Tide  on 
Grand  Pre,"  which  appeared  in  1893,  and  revealed  at  the  out- 
set his  remarkable  lyric  gift  and  his  sensitive  feeling  for  na- 
ture. In  collaboration  with  Richard  Hovey  he  did  the  well- 
known  "Vagabondia  Books,"  —  "  Songs  from  Vagabondia," 
1894;  "More  Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  1896;  and  "Last 
Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  1900,  —  which  introduced  a  new 
note  into  American  poetry,  and  appearing,  as  they  did,  in  the 
nineties,  formed  a  wholesome  contrast  to  some  of  the  work 
then  emanating  from  the  "Decadent  School"  in  England. 
Among  the  finest  of  Mr.  Carman's  volumes,  aside  from  his 
work  with  Richard  Hovey,  are  "Behind  the  Arras:  A  Book 
of  the  Unseen,"  1895;  "Ballads  of  Lost  Haven,"  1897;  "By 
the  Aurelian  Wall,  and  Other  Elegies,"  1899;  "The  Green 
Book  of  the  Bards,"  1898;  "Pipes  of  Pan,"  5  volumes,  first 
number  in  1902;  "Sappho:  One  Hundred  Lyrics,"  1903. 
Among  his  later  books  may  be  cited  "Echoes  from  Vaga- 
bondia," 1912,  and  "April  Airs,"  1916. 

GATHER,  WILLA  SIBERT.  Born  at  Winchester,  Virginia, 
December  7,  1875.  During  her  childhood  the  family  moved 
to  Nebraska,  and  in  1895  Miss  Gather  was  graduated  from 
the  University  of  that  State.  Coming  East  to  engage  in  news- 
paper work,  she  became  associated  with  the  staff  of  the  "Pitts- 
burgh Daily  Leader,"  where  she  remained  from  1897  to  1901. 
Soon  after,  she  became  one  of  the  editors  of  "  McClure's  Mag- 
azine," doing  important  feature  articles  until  1912.  Miss 
Gather  is  now  writing  fiction,  and  has  published  three  novels, 
"Alexander's  Bridge,"  "O  Pioneers!"  and  "The  Song  of  the 
Lark."  In  poetry,  she  has  done  but  one  small  volum«,  "  April 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  205 


Twilight,"  1903,  but  several  poems  from  this  collection  seem 
/ikely  to  make  for  themselves  a  permanent  place. 

CAWEIN,  MADISON.  Born  at  Louisville,  Kentucky,  March 
>3,  1865.  Educated  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city.  He 
oegan  writing  very  early  and  published  his  first  book  of  verse, 
"Blooms  of  the  Berry,"  1887,  when  but  twenty-two  years  of 
age.  From  that  time  until  his  death,  December  7,  1915,  he 
published  many  volumes  of  poetry  inspired  chiefly  by  the 
theme  of  nature.  As  most  of  these  volumes  are  out  of  print, 
it  is  unnecessary  to  list  them  all,  but  among  the  more  im- 
portant may  be  cited:  "Intimations  of  the  Beautiful,"  1894; 
"Undertones,"  1896;  "The  Garden  of  Dreams,"  1896;  "Myth 
and  Romance,"  1899; "  Weeds  by  the  Wall,"  1901 ; "  Kentucky 
Poems,"  with  an  Introduction  by  Edmund  Gosse,  London, 
1902;  "A  Voice  on  the  Wind,"  1902;  "The  Vale  of  Tempe," 
1905;  "Complete  Poetical  Wrorks,"  5  volumes,  1907;  "New 
Poems,"  London,  1909;  "  Poems  —  A  Selection  from  the  Com- 
plete Work,"  1911;  "The  Poet,  the  Fool,  and  the  Fairies," 
1912; "  Minions  of  the  Moon,"  1913; "  The  Poet  and  Nature," 
1914;  and  "The  Cup  of  Comus,"  posthumous  publication, 
1915.  Mr.  Cawein  was  distinctly  the  creator  of  his  own  field. 
From  the  publication  of  his  first  little  volume,  "  Blooms  of  the 
Berry,"  he  had  made  himself  the  intimate,  almost  the  mystic, 
comrade  of  nature.  He  had  an  ecstatic  sense  of  the  visible 
world.  Beauty  was  his  religion,  and  he  spent  his  life  learning 
the  ways  and  moods  of  nature  and  declaring  them  in  poetry 
rich  in  imagination.  He  had  the  naturalist's  eagerness  for 
truth,  and  one  might  explore  the  Kentucky  woods  and  fields 
with  a  volume  of  his  poetry  as  a  handbook  and  find  the  least 
regarded  flower  minutely  celebrated.  In  his  most  affluent 
fancy  his  eye  never  left  the  fact,  and  the  accuracy  of  his  ob- 
servation gives  his  nature  work  a  background  which  adds 
greatly  to  its  value. 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE.  Born  at  Groveland,  New  York, 
December  29, 1848.  Received  his  early  education  at  Temple 
Hill  Academy  in  Geneseo,  New  York.  After  a  short  period  of 
teaching  and  of  practicing  law,  he  became  the  librarian  of 
the  Free  Public  Library  of  San  Francisco  and  held  this  posi- 
tion from  1887  to  1894,  when  he  accepted  a  similar  one  at  the 
Newberry  Library  in  Chicago,  where  he  remained  until  1899. 
Since  that  date  he  has  resided  in  California,  where  he  devotes 
his  time  to  literary  work.  His  volumes  of  poetry  are:  "Thistle 
Drift,"  1887;  "Woodblooms,"  1888;  "Out  of  the  Silence," 
1897;  "Lyrics,"  1901;  "Poems,"  1905;  "The  Time  of  Roses," 
1908;  "At  the  Silver  Gate,"  1911. 

COATES,  FLORENCE  EARLE.  Born  at  Philadelphia  and 
educated  at  private  schools  in  that  city  and  in  France.  She 


206  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


studied  also  at  Brussels.  Her  volumes  of  poetry  in  their  order 
are,  "Poems,"  1898;  "Mine  and  Thine,"  1904;  "Lyrics  of 
Life,"  1909;  "The  Unconquered  Air,"  1912;  "Poems,"  Col- 
lected Edition,  in  two  volumes,  1916. 

COLTON,  ARTHUR.  Born  at  Washington,  May  22,  1868. 
Received  the  degree  of  A.B.  at  Yale  University  in  1890  and  of 
Ph.D.  in  1893.  He  was  also  instructor  in  English  at  Yale  for 
two  years  following  the  taking  of  his  last  degree.  Since  1906 
he  has  been  librarian  of  the  University  Club  of  New  York 
City.  Mr.  Colton  has  published  several  volumes  of  essays  and 
but  one  volume  of  poetry:  "Harps  Hung  up  in  Babylon,"  1907. 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY.  Born  in  New  York  City,  March  8, 
1859.  Graduated  at  the  Normal  College  of  New  York  City 
in  1876.  She  has  been  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  her 
Alma  Mater,  now  called  Hunter  College,  since  1899.  Her 
volumes  of  verse  are:  "Oberon  and  Puck,"  1885;  "The  Ride 
to  the  Lady,"  1893;  "Soldiers  of  the  Light,"  1911;  "A  Chant 
of  Love  for  England,  and  Other  Poems,"  1915. 

DALY,  THOMAS  AUGUSTINE.  Born  at  Philadelphia,  May  28, 
1871,  and  educated  at  Fordham  University.  He  was  for  some 
time  reporter  and  editorial  writer  on  the  "Philadelphia  Rec- 
ord," and  is  now  the  general  manager  of  the  "Catholic 
Standard  and  Times."  Mr.  Daly  has  put  the  Italian  immi- 
grant into  poetry  and  written  several  volumes  of  delightful 
verse  in  this  field.  He  has  not  pursued  this  exclusively,  how- 
ever, but  has  done  some  excellent  work  in  other  themes.  His 
volumes  are:  "Canzoni,"  1906;  "Carmina,"  1909;  "Ma- 
drigali,"  1912;  and  "Songs  of  Wedded  Love,"  1916. 

DARGAN,  OLIVE  TILFORD.  Born  in  Grayson  County,  Ken- 
tucky, and  educated  at  the  University  of  Nashville  and  at 
Radcliffe  College.  She  became  a  teacher  and  was  connected 
with  various  schools  in  Arkansas,  Missouri,  and  Texas  until 
her  marriage.  Mrs.  Dargan's  first  work  was  in  poetic  drama  in 
which  she  revealed  gifts  of  a  high  order.  Her  dramatic  vol- 
umes are:  "Semiramis,  and  Other  Plays,"  1904;  "Lords  and 
Lovers,"  1906;  and  "The  Mortal  Gods,"  1912.  Mrs.  Dargan 
has  also  written  a  collection  of  lyric  verse  called  "Path 
Flower,"  1914,  and  a  sonnet  sequence,  "The  Cycle's  Rim," 
1916. 

DASKAM,  JOSEPHINE  DODGE  (MRS.  SELDEN  BACON).  Born 
at  Stamford,  Connecticut,  February  17,  1876.  Graduated  at 
Smith  College  in  1898.  She  is  chiefly  known  as  a  novelist  and 
writer  of  short  stories  in  which  field  she  has  had  conspicuous 
success.  Among  her  volumes  of  fiction  are:  "The  Madness  of 
Philip";  "Whom  the  Gods  Destroyed";  " Margherita's 
Soul " ;  and  "Open  Market."  Miss  Daskam  has  done  but  one 
volume  of  verse:  "Poems,"  1903. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  20? 


DAVIS,  FANNIE  STEARNS  (MRS.  AUGUSTUS  McKiNSTREr 
GIFFORD).  Born  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  March  6,  1884.  Edu- 
cated at  Smith  College,  from  which  she  graduated  in  1904. 
She  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  poetry:  "Myself  and  I," 
1913,  and  "Crack  O'  Dawn,"  1915,  both  marked  by  sensitive 
poetic  feeling  and  delicate  artistry. 

FIRKINS,  CHESTER.  Born  in  Minneapolis,  Minnesota,  June 
30,  1882.  Received  his  education  in  the  public  schools  of  that 
city  and  at  the  University  of  Minnesota.  He  was  an  active 
journalist,  having  been  associated  with  the  press  of  Columbus 
and  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and  of  Chicago  before  coming  to  New 
York,  where  he  served  on  the  staff  of  the  "New  York  Ameri- 
can" until  his  death,  March  1,  1915.  He  was  a  contributor 
of  stories  and  verse  to  well-known  magazines,  but  his  volume 
of  poems  was  brought  out  posthumously  in  1916. 

FRENCH,  NORA  MAY.  Born  in  East  Aurora,  New  York, 
and  died  at  Cariuel,  California,  on  November  14,  1907,  when 
twenty-six  years  of  age.  A  small  volume  of  her  poems,  edited 
by  her  friend,  George  Sterling,  was  brought  out  after  her 
death. 

GARRISON,  THEODOSIA  (MRS.  FREDERICK  J.  FAULKS). 
Born  at  Newark,  New  Jersey.  Educated  at  private  schools  in 
New  York.  She  was  for  several  years  a  constant  contributor 
of  poetry  to  the  magazines,  though  she  has  written  less  of 
late.  Her  two  published  volumes  of  verse  are:  "Joy  O'  Life," 
1908,  and  "The  Earth  Cry,"  1910. 

GREENE,  SARAH  PRATT  McLEAN.  Born  at  Simsbury,  Con- 
necticut, July  3, 1856  and  educated  at  McLean  Academy  and 
at  Mount  Holyoke  College.  She  is  chiefly  known  as  the  au- 
thor of  "Cape  Cod  Folks,"  "  Vesty  of  the  Basins,"  and  other 
volumes  dealing  with  the  life  of  the  Cape  Cod  fishermen,  but 
Mrs.  Greene  has  written  one  poem  destined  to  hold  a  perma- 
nent place  not  only  in  our  literature,  but  in  the  larger  body  of 
enduring  poetry.  This  is  "De  Massa  ob  de  Sheepfol,"  con- 
tained in  this  collection. 

GUINEY,  LOUISE  IMOGEN.  Born  at  Boston,  January  7, 
1861.  Educated  in  the  private  schools  of  Boston  and  the 
Sacred  Heart  Convent  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island.  Her 
father,  Patrick  Guiney,  was  a  brigadier-general  in  our  Civil 
War,  and  having  been  born  during  the  period  of  the  conflict 
and  her  early  youth  having  been  spent  almost  before  the  echo 
of  the  guns  had  died,  Miss  Guiney's  work  was  much  influ- 
enced by  this  background  of  association.  The  symbolism  of 
her  poetry  is  frequently  drawn  from  battle  or  from  knight- 
errantry,  as  in  "The  Wild  Ride,"  "The  Kings,"  "The  Vigil- 
at-Arms,"  "The  Knight  Errant,"  "Memorial  Day,"  etc. 
Valor,  transmuted  to  a  spiritual  quality,  may,  indeed,  be  said 


208  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

co  be  the  keynote  of  Miss  Guiney's  work.  Add  to  this  a  mys- 
tical element,  best  illustrated  in  her  poem,  "Beati  Mortui," 
a  Celtic  note,  shown  so  exquisitely  in  her  "Irish  Peasant 
Song,"  and  one  has  the  more  obvious  characteristics  of  poetry 
that,  whatever  its  theme,  is  always  distinguished  and  indi- 
vidual. Miss  Guiney  has  a  crisp  economy  of  phrase,  a  pun- 
gency and  tang,  that  invest  her  style  with  an  unusual  degree 
of  personality.  Her  volumes  in  their  order  have  been:  "The 
White  Sail,"  1887;  "A  Roadside  Harp,"  1893;  "Nine  Son- 
nets Written  at  Oxford,"  1895;  "The  Martyr's  Idyl,"  1899; 
and  "Happy  Ending,"  her  collected  poems,  1909. 

HAGEDORN,  HERMANN.  Born  July  18,  1882.  Educated  at 
Harvard  University  and  the  University  of  Berlin  and  served 
as  instructor  in  English  at  Harvard  from  1909  to  1911.  Mr. 
Hagedorn  is  the  author  of  "The  Silver  Blade:  A  Play  in 
Verse,"  1907;  "The  Woman  of  Corinth,"  1908;  "A  Troop  of 
the  Guard,"  1909;  "Poems  and  Ballads,"  1911;  and  "The 
Great  Maze  and  the  Heart  of  Youth:  A  Poem  and  a  Play," 
1916. 

HELBURN,  THERESA.  Born  in  New  York  City.  Educated 
at  Bryn  Mawr  College  and  at  Radcliffe.  She  has  not  yet  pub- 
lished a  collection  of  poetry,  but  has  contributed  to  the  lead- 
ing magazines. 

HOVEY,  RICHARD.  Born  at  Normal,  Illinois,  May  4,  1864, 
died  February  24,  1900.  He  received  his  early  education  at 
Dartmouth  College,  which  he  afterward  celebrated  in  several 
of  his  best-known  poems.  In  collaboration  with  Bliss  Carman 
he  did  the  well  known  "  Vagabondia  Books, "  — • "  Songs  from 
Vagabondia,"  1894;  "More  Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  1896; 
"Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  1900,  —  books  whose  fresh- 
ness and  charm  immediately  won  them  a  place  in  public 
favor  that  time  has  not  lessened.  Aside  from  his  \vork  with 
Mr.  Carman  and  his  lyric  collection,  "Along  the  Trail,"  1898, 
Hovey  had  done  a  remarkable  group  of  poetic  dramas  built 
upon  the  Arthurian  legend  and  issued  separately  under  the 
titles,  "The  Quest  of  Merlin:  A  Masque,"  1898;  "The  Mar- 
riage of  Guenevere:  A  Tragedy,"  1898;  "The  Birth  of  Gala- 
had: A  Romantic  Drama,"  1898;  "Taliesin:  A  Masque," 
1899.  These  were  but  part  of  the  dramas  projected  in  the 
cycle  and  a  fragment  of  the  next  to  be  issued,  "The  Holy 
Grail,"  was  published,  with  explanatory  notes  of  the  whole 
series,  in  1907.  The  dramas  stand  for  a  dramatic  achievement 
of  a  high  order,  and  contain  poetry  of  great  beauty,  reaching 
at  times,  in  the  lyric  masque  of  "Taliesin,"  an  almost  con- 
summate expression.  Richard  Hovey  was,  indeed,  both  in 
lyric  and  dramatic  work,  a  poet  of  rare  endowment  and  his 
•early  death  was  a  distinct  loss  to  American  letters. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  209 

JOHNS,  ORRICK.  Born  in  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  in  1887.  Edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Missouri  and  Washington  Univer- 
sity in  St.  Louis.  He  was  associated  for  a  short  time  with 
"Reedy's  Mirror."  In  1912  he  received  the  first  prize,  of  five 
hundred  dollars,  for  a  poem  entitled  "Second  Avenue,"  con- 
tributed to  the  prize  contest  of  "The  Lyric  Year,"  and  after- 
wards published  in  that  volume. 

JONES,  THOMAS  S.,  JR.  Born  at  Boonville,  New  York, 
November  6,  1882.  Graduated  at  Cornell  University  in  1904. 
He  was  on  the  dramatic  staff  of  the  "  New  York  Times,"  from 
1904  to  1907,  and  associate  editor  of  "The  Pathfinder,"  in 
1911.  fiis  published  volumes  are:  "Path  of  Dreams,"  1904; 
"From  Quiet  Valleys,"  1907;  "Interludes,"  1908;  "Ave 
Atque  Vale"  (In  Memoriam  Arthur  Upson),  1909;  "The 
Voice  in  the  Silence,"  with  a  Foreword  by  James  Lane  Allen, 
1911;  and  "The  Rose-Jar,"  originally  published  in  1906,  but 
taken  over  in  1915  by  Thomas  B.  Mosher  and  made  the  initial 
volume  of  "Lyra  Americana,"  his  first  series  of  American 
poetry. 

KILMER,  JOYCE.  Born  at  New  Brunswick,  New  Jersey, 
December  6,  1886,  and  graduated  at  Columbia  University  in 
1908.  After  a  short  period  of  teaching  he  became  associated 
with  Funk  and  Wagnalls  Company,  where  he  remained  from 
1909  to  1912,  when  he  assumed  the  position  of  literary  editor 
of  "The  Churchman."  In  1913  Mr.  Kilmer  became  a  mem- 
ber of  the  staff  or  the  "New  York  Times,"  a  position  which 
he  still  occupies.  His  volumes  of  poetry  are:  "A  Summer  of 
Love,"  1911,  and  "Trees,  and  Other  Poems,"  1914. 

KNOWLES,  FREDERICK  LAWRENCE.  Born  at  Lawrence, 
Massachusetts,  September  8,  1869,  and  graduated  at  Wes- 
leyan  University  in  1894  and  Harvard  University  in  1896, 
He  was  connected  for  a  short  time  with  the  editorial  depart- 
ment of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  and  with  the  staff  of 
L.  C.  Page  and  Company  as  literary  adviser.  In  1900  he  ac- 
cepted a  similar  position  with  Dana  Estes  and  Company 
where  he  remained  until  his  death  in  September,  1905.  Mr. 
Knowles  was  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  verse:  "On  Life's 
Stairway,"  1900,  and  "Love  Triumphant,"  1904.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  own  work  in  poetry  he  was  the  editor  of  several  ex- 
cellent anthologies,  such  as  "The  Golden  Treasury  of  Ameri- 
can Lyrics,"  1897;  "A  Treasury  of  Humorous  Poetry,"  1902: 
and  "A  Year-Book  of  Famous  Lyrics."  Mr.  Knowles  was  a 
poet  of  fine  gifts  and  his  early  death  was  a  loss  to  Amer- 
ican poetry. 

LEDOUX,  Louis.  Born  at  New  York  City,  June  6,  18»0. 
Educated  at  Columbia  University,  where  he  graduated  in 
1902.  He  is  the  author  of  "Songs  from  the  Silent  Land," 


210  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

1905;  "The  Soul's  Progress,"  1907; "  Yzdra:  A  Poetic  Drama," 
1909;  "The  Shadow  of  Etna,"  1914;  "The  Story  of  Eleusis: 
A  Lyrical  Drama,"  1916. 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD.  Born  at  Liverpool,  England, 
January  20,  1866.  He  was  already  a  well-known  poet,  novel- 
ist, and  critic  when  he  took  up  his  residence  in  the  United 
States.  In  each  of  these  fields  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  has  achieved 
conspicuous  success  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  what  phase 
of  his  literary  work  should  take  precedence  of  the  others. 
Among  the  best  known  of  his  prose  works  are:  "The  Quest  of 
the  Golden  Girl,"  "Book  Bills  of  Narcissus,"  "An  Old  Coun- 
try House,"  "Little  Dinners  with  the  Sphinx,"  etc.  Tn  crit- 
icism he  has  done  particularly  fine  work  in  his  study  of  Qeorge 
Meredith  and  in  his  volume,  "Attitudes  and  Avowals."  In 
poetry,  with  which  we  are  chiefly  concerned,  he  has  given  us 
several  volumes  distinguished  by  that  delicacy  and  sensitive 
feeling  for  beauty  which  characterize  all  of  his  work.  These 
are:  "English  Poems,"  1892;  "Stevenson,  and  Other  Poems," 
1895;  "New  Poems,"  1909;  "The  Lonely  Dancer,"  1913.  In 
addition  to  these  volumes,  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  has  made  an 
admirable  paraphrase  of  the  "Rubaiyat"  of  Omar  Khayyam 
and  of  a  group  of  odes  from  the  "Divan"  of  Hafiz. 

LINDSAY,  VACHEL.  Born  November  10, 1879.  Educated  at 
Hiram  College,  Ohio.  He  took  up  the  study  of  art  and  studied 
at  the  Art  Institute,  Chicago,  1900-03  and  at  the  New  York 
School  of  Art,  1904-05.  For  a  time  after  his  technical  study, 
he  lectured  upon  art  in  its  practical  relation  to  the  community, 
and  returning  to  his  home  in  Springfield,  Illinois,  issued  what 
one  might  term  his  manifesto  in  the  shape  of  "The  Village 
Magazine,"  divided  about  equally  between  prose  articles, 
pertaining  to  beautifying  his  native  city,  and  poems,  illus- 
trated by  his  own  drawings.  Soon  after  this,  Mr.  Lindsay, 
taking  as  scrip  for  the  journey,  "Rhymes  to  be  Traded  for 
Bread,"  made  a  pilgrimage  on  foot  through  several  Western 
States  going  as  far  afield  as  New  Mexico.  The  story  of  this 
journey  is  given  in  his  volume,  "Adventures  while  Preaching 
the  Gospel  of  Beauty."  Mr.  Lindsay  first  attracted  atten- 
tion in  poetry  by  "General  William  Booth  Enters  into 
Heaven,"  a  poem  which  became  the  title  of  his  first  volume, 
in  1913.  His  second  volume  was  "The  Congo,"  published  in 
1914.  He  is  attempting  to  restore  to  poetry  its  early  appeal 
as  a  spoken  art,  and  his  later  work  differs  greatly  from  the 
selections  contained  in  this  anthology. 

LODGE,  GEORGE  CABOT.  Born  at  Boston,  October  12, 1873. 
Educated  at  Harvard  University  and  the  University  of 
Paris.  He  did  his  first  work  in  poetry  at  Harvard  in  the  stim- 
ulating companionship  of  a  little  group  of  poets  including 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES    211 

Trumbull  Stickney,  William  Vaughn  Moody,  and  Philip 
Henry  Savage,  all  of  whom,  by  a  strange  fatality,  died  within 
a  few  years  after  leaving  the  University.  Mr.  Lodge  was  a 
poet  whose  gift  followed  classical  lines,  but  was  none  the  less 
individual  and  sincere.  His  complete  work  in  lyric  and  dra- 
matic poetry  has  been  gathered  into  two  volumes:  "Poems 
and  Dramas,"  1911.  He  died  at  Boston  in  1909. 

LOWELL,  AMY.  Born  at  Boston,  February  9,  1874.  Edu- 
cated at  private  schools.  She  has  been  prominently  identi- 
fied with  the  "Imagist"  movement  in  poetry  and  with  the 
technical  use  of  vers  libre.  These  movements,  however,  were 
not  yet  influencing  poetry  when  "The  Little  Book  of  Modern 
Verse"  was  edited,  and  Miss  Lowell  is,  therefore,  represented 
by  a  lyric  in  her  earlier  and  less  characteristic  manner.  Her 
volumes  in  their  order  are:  "A  Dome  of  Many-Coloured 
Glass,"  1912;  "Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,"  1914;  "Men, 
Women,  and  Ghosts,"  1916.  Miss  Lowell  is  also  the  editor  of 
"Some  Imagist  Poets,"  1915;  "Some  Imagist  Poets,"  1916, 
and  "Some  Imagist  Poets,"  1917,  all  of  which  contain  a 
group  of  her  own  poems. 

MACK  A  YE,  PERCY.  Born  at  New  York  City,  March  16, 
1875.  Educated  at  Harvard  University  and  the  University 
of  Leipzig.  He  has  written  many  poetic  dramas  and  several 
volumes  of  lyric  verse.  Among  the  best  known  of  his  dramas 
are:  "The  Canterbury  Pilgrims,"  1903;  "Fenris,  the  Wolf," 
1905; "Jeanne  d'Arc,"  1906; "Sappho  and  Phaon,"  1907;  and 
"Caliban:  A  Masque,"  1916.  He  is  also  the  author  of  sev- 
eral prose  dramas  which  have  been  successfully  produced.  In 
non-dramatic  poetry  his  most  representative  volumes  are: 
"Poems,"  1909;  "Uriel,  and  Other  Poems,"  1912;  "The  Sis- 
tine  Eve,  and  Other  Poems,"  "The  Present  Hour,"  1915. 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN.  Born  at  Oregon  City,  Oregon,  April 
23,  1852.  Removed  at  an  early  age  to  California,  where  his 
childhood  was  spent  upon  a  ranch  in  herding  sheep  and  riding 
the  ranges  after  the  cattle.  Later,  when  the  cattle  ranges 
turned  into  farms,  he  worked  in  the  fields  and  in  autumn 
joined  the  threshers  on  their  route  from  farm  to  farm.  During 
his  boyhood  he  attended  school  but  three  months  in  the  year, 
but  later  studied  at  San  Jose  Normal  School  and  the  Univer- 
sity of  California.  His  first  books  were  earned,  when  a  lad  on 
the  ranch,  by  ploughing  a  twenty-acre  lot  at  a  dollar  an  acre 
and  investing  the  entire  sum  in  the  works  of  the  great  poets. 
Thereafter,  when  he  rode  the  ranges,  he  balanced  his  saddle- 
bags with  Keats  and  Shelley.  It  was,  indeed,  largely  due  to  the 
democracy  of  Shelley,  coupled  with  his  own  early  experiences, 
that  his  genius  took  the  social  bent  which  distinguishes  it. 
After  leaving  the  University,  Mr.  Markham  became  a  teacher 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


in  California  and  was  principal  and  superintendent  of  several 
schools  until  1899,  when  he  sprang  suddenly  into  fame  by  the 
publication  in  the  "San  Francisco  Examiner"  of  his  poem 
"The  Man  With  the  Hoe."  This  poem,  crystallizing  as  it  did 
the  spirit  of  the  time,  and  emphasizing  one's  obligation  to 
Society,  became  the  impulse  of  the  whole  social  movement  m 
poetry,  a  movement  which  largely  prevailed  during  the  early 
years  of  the  twentieth  century.  After  the  great  success  of 
"The  Man  With  the  Hoe,"  Mr.  Markham  removed  from 
California  to  New  York  City,  where  he  has  since  been  en- 
gaged in  literary  work.  His  volumes  of  poetry  in  their  or- 
der are:  "The  Man  With  the  Hoe,  and  Other  Poems,"  1899; 
"Lincoln,  and  Other  Poems,"  1901;  "The  Shoes  of  Happi- 
ness," 1915. 

MIFFLIN,  LLOYD.  Born  at  Columbia,  Pennsylvania,  Sep- 
tember 15,  1846.  He  was  educated  at  Washington  Classical 
Institute  and  studied  art  abroad.  His  chief  work  in  poetry 
has  been  in  the  sonnet  form,  of  which  he  has  exceptional  mas- 
tery. His  volumes  are:  "The  Hills,"  1896;  "At  the  Gates 
of  Song,"  1897;  "The  Slopes  of  Helicon,  1898;  "The  Fields 
of  Dawn  and  Later  Sonnets,"  1900;  "Castilian  Days,"  1903; 
"Collected  Sonnets,  1905;  "My  Lady  of  Dream,"  1906;  and 
"Toward  the  Uplands,"  1908. 

MILLAY,  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT.  Born  at  Camden,  Maine. 
Educated  at  Vassar  College.  Before  entering  college,  how- 
ever, when  she  was  but  nineteen  years  of  age,  she  wrote  the 
poem  "Renascence,"  which  was  entered  in  the  prize  contest 
of  "The  Lyric  Year."  The  poem  shows  remarkable  imagi- 
nation and  a  poetic  gift  of  a  high  order.  Miss  Miilay  has  not 
yet  issued  a  volume  of  verse. 

MOODY,  WILLIAM  VAUGHN.  Born  at  Spencer,  Indiana,  July 
8,  1869.  Educated  at  Riverside  Academy,  New  York,  and  at 
Harvard.  In  1895  he  became  Assistant  Professor  of  English 
in  the  University  of  Chicago,  where  he  remained  until  1903. 
His  period  of  teaching,  however,  was  relieved  by  several  trips 
abroad,  on  one  of  which  he  visited  Greece  and  re-read  the 
entire  body  of  Greek  tragedy  with  the  background  of  th' 
scenes  which  produced  it.  The  Greek  influence,  dominant  i 
his  work,  reaches  its  finest  expression  in  "The  Fire-Bringer,' 
a  poetic  drama  of  great  beauty  and  philosophical  depth.  This 
drama  is  one  of  a  trilogy  of  which  it  is  the  first  member,  the 
second  being  "The  Masque  of  Judgment,"  and  the  third, 
"The  Death  of  Eve."  The  last  was  in  process  of  writing  at 
Mr.  Moody's  death  and  only  fragments  of  it  have  been  pub- 
lished. This  trilogy,  profound  in  its  spiritual  meaning  and 
artistic  in  execution,  would  alone  be  sufficient  to  place  Moody 
among  the  major  poets  had  he  not  left  us  a  body  of  lyric 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  213 

poetry  of  equal  distinction.  Moody  first  attracted  wide  atten- 
tion by  "An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,"  written  in  relation 
to  the  annexation  of  the  Philippine  Islands  by  the  United 
States.  In  addition  to  this  he  has  left  us  several  poems  no- 
table for  their  social  vision,  particularly  "  Gloucester  Moors." 
In  the  songs  of  "The  Fire-Bringer,"  however,  we  have  his 
truest  lyric  offering,  and  in  "The  Daguerreotype,"  that 
poignant  and  beautiful  poem  to  his  mother.  Moody  died  at 
Colorado  Springs  on  October  17,  1910.  His  work  has  been 
collected  into  two  volumes,  "The  Poems  and  Plays  of  William 
Vaughn  Moody,"  1912. 

NEIHARDT,  JOHN  G.  Born  at  Sharpsburg,  Illinois,  January 
8, 1881 .  Removed  in  his  early  boyhood  to  Bancroft,  Nebraska, 
his  present  home.  He  has  made  a  special  study  of  the  pioneer 
life  of  the  West  and  has  also  lived  for  a  time  among  the 
Omaha  Indians  to  study  them.  His  work  has  virility  and 
imagination  and  reflects  the  life  which  inspired  it.  His  books 
of  verse  are:  "A  Bundle  of  Myrrh,"  1908;  "Man-Song," 
1909;  "The  Stranger  at  the  Gate,"  1912;  "The  Song  of  Hugh 
Glass,"  1915;  and  "The  Quest,"  1916. 

NORTON,  GRACE  FALLOW.  Born  at  Northfield,  Minnesota, 
October  29,  1876.  She  is  the  author  of  "The  Little  Gray 
Songs  from  St.  Joseph's,"  1912;  "The  Sister  of  the  Wind," 
1914;  "Roads,"  1915;  "What  is  Your  Legion?"  1916. 

O'HARA,  JOHN  MYERS.  Author  of  "Songs  of  the  Open," 
1909;  "The  Poems  of  Sappho:  An  Interpretative  Rendition 
into  English,"  1910;  "Pagan  Sonnets,"  1910;  "The  Ebon 
Muse,"  1914;  "Manhattan,"  1915.  Mr.  O'Hara's  rendition 
of  "Sappho"  is  one  of  the  finest  in  English  literature. 

O  SHEEL,  SHAEMAS.  Born  at  New  York  City,  September 
19,  1886.  Educated  at  Columbia  University.  His  volumes 
are:  "The  Blossomy  Bough,"  1911,  and  "The  Light  Feet  of 
Goats,"  1915. 

PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  (MRS.  LIONEL  MARKS). 
Born  at  New  York  City.  Educated  at  the  Girls'  Latin  School  of 
Boston  and  at  Radcliffe  College.  She  was  instructor  of  English 
at  Wellesley  College  from  1901  to  1903.  Her  volumes  of  lyric 
and  dramatic  poetry  in  their  order  are:  "The  Wayfarers," 
1898;  "Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes,"  1900;  "Marlowe:  A 
Drama,"  1901;  "The  Singing  Leaves,"  1903;  "The  Wings," 
1905;  "The  Piper,"  a  drama,  awarded  the  Stratford-on-Avon 
Prize,  1910;  "The  Singing  Man,"  1911;  "The  Wolf  of  Gub- 
bio:  A  Drama,"  1913;  "The  Harvest  Moon,"  1916.  Miss  Pea- 
body,  as  her  volumes  show,  is  a  poet  of  varied  gifts  and  her 
work  is  always  distinguished  by  charm  of  personality  and  by 
insight. 

REKSE,  LIZETTE  WTOODWORTH.    Born  in  Baltimore,  Mary 


214  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


land,  January  9,  1856.  Educated  in  the  schools  of  that  city. 
She  has  been  for  many  years  a  teacher  of  English  in  West 
High  School  of  Baltimore.  Her  volumes  of  verse  are:  "A 
Branch  of  May,"  1887;  "A  Handful  of  Lavender,"  1891; 
"A  Quiet  Road,"  1896;  "A  Wayside  Lute,"  1909.  Miss 
Reese  has  a  lyric  gift  unique  in  its  strict  Saxon  simplicity. 
Her  work  has  an  early,  Old-W'orld  flavor,  a  quaintness,  a 
magic  of  phrase  that  renders  it  wholly  individual. 

RICE,  CALE  YOUNG.  Born  at  Dixon,  Kentucky,  December 
7,  1872.  Graduated  from  Cumberland  University  in  1893, 
and  from  Harvard  University  in  1895,  where  he  remained  to 
take  the  degree  of  A.M.  in  1896.  He  is  the  author  of  many 
fine  poetic  dramas,  some  of  which  have  had  successful  stage 
presentation,  and  of  several  volumes  of  lyric  poetry.  In 
poetic  drama  his  best-known  volumes  are : "  Charles  di  Tocca," 
1903;  "David,"  1904;  "  Yolanda  of  Cyprus,"  1906;  "A  Night 
in  Avignon,"  1907;  "The  Immortal  Lure,"  1911;  "Porzia," 
1913.  In  lyric  poetry  he  has  published  the  following  collec- 
tions: "From  Dusk  to  Dusk,"  1898;  "Song  Surf,"  1900; 
"Nirvana  Days,"  1908;  "Many  Gods,"  1910;  "Far  Quests," 
1912;  "At  the  World's  Heart,"  1914;  "Earth  and  New 
Earth,"  1916;  "Trails  Sunward,"  1917.  With  the  exception 
of  the  last  two  books,  Mr.  Rice's  plays  and  poems  were 
collected  into  two  volumes  in  1915. 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB.  Born  in  Greenfield,  Indiana, 
in  June,  1853,  and  died  at  Indianapolis,  July,  1916.  He  oc- 
cupied a  field  unique  in  American  literature  and  probably 
no  poet  came  as  near  to  the  heart  of  the  people.  Popularly 
known  as  "The  Hoosier  Poet,"  because  his  verse  was  largely 
written  in  the  dialect  of  the  common  people  of  his  native 
State  of  Indiana,  he  was  yet  a  poet  of  the  truest  gifts,  and 
many  of  his  dialect  poems  bid  fair  to  become  classic.  Mr. 
Riley  did  not  confine  himself,  however,  to  the  use  of  dialect, 
but  wrote  some  exquisite  poetry  in  other  fields.  Unlike  many 
poets,  he  lived  to  see  himself  not  only  the  most  beloved  and 
honored  citizen  of  his  native  State,  which  annually  celebrates 
"Riley  Day,"  but  the  most  widely  known  and  beloved  poet 
of  his  period  in  America.  Mr.  Riley  was  so  voluminous  a 
writer  that  we  have  scarcely  space  to  list  all  of  his  titles,  but 
among  the  favorite  volumes  are:  "The  Old  Swimmin'  Hole, 
and  'Leven  More  Poems,"  1883;  "Afterwhiles,"  1887; 
"Pipes  o'  Pan  at  Zekesbury,"  1888;  "Rhymes  of  Child- 
hood," 1890;  "Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks,"  1892; 
"Armazindy,"  1894;  "Love  Lyrics,"  1899;  "Home  Folks," 
1900;  "Farm  Rhymes,"  1901;  "An  Old  Sweetheart  of  Mine," 
1902;  "Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's,"  1904;  "Raggedy  Man," 
1907;  "The  Little  Orphant  Annie  Book,"  1908;  "WThen  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  215 

Frost  is  on  the  Punkin,  and  Other  Poems,"  1911;  "Knee 
Deep  in  June,  and  Other  Poems,"  1912;  and  the  Biographical 
Edition  of  the  complete  works,  1913. 

ROBERTS,  CHARLES  G.  D.  Born  in  Douglas,  New  Bruns- 
wick, January  10,  1860.  Educated  at  the  University  of  New 
Brunswick.  After  a  period  of  teaching,  he  turned  to  journal- 
ism and  was  editor  for  a  time  of  "The  Week,"  Toronto,  and 
associate  editor  of  "The  Illustrated  American."  Mr.  Roberts 
has  been  a  voluminous  writer  as  novelist,  naturalist,  and  poet. 
His  volumes  of  verse  are:  "Orion,  and  Other  Poems,"  1880; 
"In  Divers  Tones,"  1887;  "Songs  of  the  Common  Day,"  1893; 
"The  Book  of  the  Native,"  1896;  "New  York  Nocturnes," 
1898;  "Poems,"  1901;  "The  Book  of  the  Rose,"  1903;  Col- 
lected Poems,  1907. 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON.  Born  at  Head  Tide, 
Maine,  December  22, 1869.  Educated  at  Harvard  University. 
He  is  the  author  of  "Children  of  the  Night,"  1897;  "Captain 
Craig,"  1902;  "The  Town  Down  the  River,"  1910;  "The 
Man  against  the  Sky,"  1916;  Merlin,"  1917;  and  of  two  prose 
dramas,  "Van  Zorn"  and  "The  Porcupine."  Mr.  Robinson 
is  a  psychological  poet  of  great  subtlety.  His  poems  are 
usually  studies  of  types  and  he  has  given  us  a  remarkable 
series  of  portraits. 

ROGERS,  ROBERT  CAMERON.  Born  at  Buffalo,  New  York, 
January  7,  1862.  Died  at  Santa  Barbara,  California,  while 
still  a  young  man.  He  was  chiefly  known  for  his  poem,  "The 
Rosary,"  contained  in  this  collection. 

ROSENFELD,  MORRIS.  A  Yiddish  poet  who  came  to  America 
»n  his  early  youth.  He  has  been  connected  editorially  with 
the  Jewish  "  Forward  "  and  other  papers.  He  is  chiefly  known 
for  his  "Songs  of  the  Ghetto." 

SANTAYANA,  GEORGE  E.  Born  in  Madrid,  Spain,  December 
16,  1863.  He  was  for  several  years  Professor  of  Philosophy 
at  Harvard  University,  and  has  written  important  works  in 
this  field,  particularly  "The  Sense  of  Beauty,"  1896,  and 
"Interpretations  of  Poetry  and  Religion,"  1900.  His  work 
in  poetry  has  been  largely  in  the  sonnet  form,  of  which  he 
has  a  classic  mastery.  His  volumes  of  verse  are:  "Sonnets, 
and  Other  Poems,"  1894;  "Lucifer,"  1899;  "The  Hermit  of 
Carmel,"  1901;  "Collected  Sonnets,"  1910. 

SCHAUFFLER,  ROBERT  HAVEN.  Born  at  Briin,  Austria, 
though  of  American  parentage,  on  April  8,  1879.  He  studied 
at  Northwestern  University,  but  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  from 
Princeton  in  1902,  and  afterwards  spent  a  year  in  study  at 
the  Universitjr  of  Berlin.  Mr.  Schauffler  was  a  musician  before 
he  took  up  literature  and  was  a  pupil  of  many  famous  masters 
of  the  'cello.  He  has  written  upon  musical  subjects,  notably 


216  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

in  his  volume,  "The  Musical  Amateur."  He  has  also  written 
several  books  of  travel,  such  as  "Romantic  Germany"  and 
"Romantic  America."  He  attracted  wide  attention  by  his 
poem  upon  immigration,  "The  Scum  o'  the  Earth,"  which 
is  the  title  poem  of  his  volume  of  verse,  1912. 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON.  Born  at  Clinton,  New  York,  Sep- 
tember 18,  1860.  Graduated  at  Hamilton  College  in  1881. 
He  afterwards  studied  at  Harvard  University  and  at  Cam- 
bridge, England.  He  was  Professor  of  English  Literature  at 
Hamilton  College,  1888-96.  Mr.  Scollard  has  been  a  volu- 
minous writer,  and  we  must  content  ourselves  with  listing 
his  more  important  books.  His  first  volume  was  "Pictures 
in  Song,"  1884,  followed  by:  "With  Reed  and  Lyre,"  1888; 
"Old  and  New  World  Lyrics,"  1888;  "Songs  of  Sunrise 
Lands,"  1892;  "The  Hills  of  Seng,"  1895;  "The  Lutes  of 
Morn,"  1901;  "Lyrics  of  the  Dawn,"  1902;  "The  Lyric 
Bough,"  1904;  "Chords  of  the  Zither,"  1910;  "Sprays  of 
Shamrock,"  1914;  "Poems,"  a  selection  from  his  complete 
work,  1914;  "Italy  in  Arms,"  1915;  "The  Vale  of  Shadows," 
1915;  "Ballads,  Patriotic  and  Romantic,"  1916. 

SHERMAN,  FRANK  DEMPSTER.  Born  at  Peekskill,  New 
York,  May  6,  1860.  Died  September  19,  1916.  He  took  the 
degree  of  Ph.B.  from  Columbia  University  in  1884,  and  was 
Professor  of  Graphics  in  Columbia  School  of  Architecture 
from  1904  until  his  death.  He  was  the  author  of  "Madrigals 
and  Catches,"  1887;  "Lyrics  for  a  Lute,"  1890;  "Little  Folk 
Lyrics,"  1892;  "Lyrics  of  Joy,"  1904;  and  "A  Southern 
Flight"  (with  Clinton  Scollard),  1906. 

STERLING,  GEORGE.  Born  at  Sag  Harbor,  New  York,  De- 
cember 1,  1869.  Educated  at  private  schools  and  at  St. 
Charles  College,  Ellicott  City,  Maryland.  He  is  the  author  of 
"The  Testimony  of  the  Suns,"  1903;  "A  Wine  of  Wizardry," 
1908;  "TheHouse  of  Orchids,"  1911;  "Beyond  the  Breakers," 
1914;  "Exposition  Ode,"  1915;  and  "Yosemite,"  1915.  Mr. 
Sterling  is  a  writer  to  whom  the  sublimer  aspects  of  nature 
appeal  and  he  has  a  style  admirably  suited  to  their  portrayal. 

STICKNEY,  JOSEPH  TRUMBULL.  Born  at  Geneva,  Switzer- 
land, June  20,  1874.  After  a  youth  spent  for  the  most  part 
in  Italy  and  Switzerland,  although  his  family  maintained  a 
house  in  New  York,  Stickney  entered  Harvard  University  in. 
1891.  Graduating  with  high  classical  honors  in  1895,  here- 
turned  to  Europe  to  study  for  the  degree  Doctorat  es  Let- 
tres.  This  was  conferred  upon  him  by  the  University  of  Paris 
in  1903,  in  exchange  for  his  two  theses,  "Les  Sentences  dans 
la  Poesie  Grecque  d'Homere  a  Euripide"  and  "De  Hermolai 
Barbari  vita  atque  ingenio  dissertationem."  This  degree, 
the  highest  in  the  gift  of  the  University,  was  never  before 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  217 

bestowed  upon  an  American.  Stickney's  volume  of  poems, 
"Dramatic  Verses,"  had  been  published  in  1902.  Leaving 
Paris  in  April,  1903,  Stickney  spent  a  few  months  in  Greece 
and  then  returned  to  America  to  become  instructor  in  Greek 
at  Harvard.  He  died  in  Boston,  October  11,  1904.  His 
"Poems"  were  collected  and  edited  in  1905  by  his  friends, 
George  Cabot  Lodge,  William  Vaughn  Moody,  and  John 
Ellerton  Lodge. 

SWEENEY,  MILDRED  McNsiL.  Born  at  Burnett,  Wisconsin, 
August  30,  1871.  Graduated  from  Lawrence  University,  Ap- 
pleton,  Wisconsin  in  1889.  Mrs.  Sweeney  has  lived  much 
abroad.  She  is  the  author  of  "When  Yesterday  was  Young," 
1908;  and  "Men  of  No  Land,"  London,  1912. 

TEASDALE,  SARA  (MRS.  ERNST  B.  FILSINGER).  Born  in 
St.  Louis,  Missouri,  August  10,  1884.  Educated  at  private 
schools.  She  is  the  author  of  "Sonnets  to  Duse,"  1907; 
"Helen  of  Troy,  and  Other  Poems,"  1911;  "Rivers  to  the 
Sea,"  1915;  "Love  Songs,"  1917.  Editor  of  "The  Answering 
Voice:  A  Hundred  Love  Lyrics  by  Women,"  1917.  Miss 
Teasdale  is  a  lyric  poet  of  an  unusually  pure  and  spontaneous 
gift. 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M.  Born  at  Chatham,  Ohio,  August  12, 
1854.  Graduated  at  the  Normal  Institute  of  Geneva,  Ohio. 
Since  1888  she  has  resided  in  New  York  and  is  a  member  of 
the  editorial  staff  of  "Harper's  Magazine."  She  is  the 
author  of  "A  New  Year's  Masque,"  1885;  "Lyrics  and  Son- 
nets," 1887;  "The  Inverted  Torch,"  1890;  "Fair  Shadow- 
land,"  1893;  "In  Sunshine  Land,"  1895;  "A  Winter  Swal- 
low," 1896;  "The  Dancers,"  1903;  "The  Guest  at  the  Gate," 
1909;  "The  White  Messenger,"  1915;  and  "The  Flower  from 
the  Ashes,"  1915.  Miss  Thomas  is  a  poet  of  rare  and  subtle 
quality.  Her  work  is  almost  wholly  subjective,  the  emotional 
reaction  to  her  own  experience.  She  has  written  many  lyrics 
which  are  among  the  choicest  possessions  of  our  literature. 

TORRENCE,  RIDGELY.  Born  at  Xenia,  Ohio,  November 
27,  1875.  Educated  at  Miami  University,  Ohio,  and  at 
Princeton.  Served  as  assistant  librarian  at  the  Astor  and 
Lenox  libraries  in  New  York  City  from  1897  to  1903.  His 
volumes  of  poetry  and  poetic  drama  are:  "The  House  of  a 
Hundred  Lights,"  1900;  "El  Dorado:  A  Tragedy,"  1903; 
"Abelard  and  Heloise:  A  Drama,"  1907. 

TOWNE,  CHARLES  HANSON.  Born  at  Louisville,  Kentucky, 
February  2, 1877.  Educated  at  New  York  City  College.  Mr. 
Towne  has  been  an  active  journalist,  having  been  successively 
editor  of  "The  Smart  Set,"  "The  Delineator,"  "The  De- 
signer," and  "  McClure's  Magazine."  Despite  his  journalistic 
work  he  has  found  time  to  write  several  volumes  of  poetry 


218  BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

of  which  the  best  known  are:  "The  Quiet  Singer,  and  Other 
Poems,"  1908;  "Manhattan,"  1909;  "Youth,  and  Other 
Poems,"  1910;  "Beyond  the  Stars,  and  Other  Poems,"  1912; 
and  "To-day  and  To-morrow,"  1916. 

UNTERMEYER,  Louis.  Born  at  New  York  City,  October 
1,  1885.  Educated  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city.  He  has 
been  connected  editorially  with  "The  Masses"  and  with 
"The  Seven  Arts,"  and  does  critical  work  for  the  "Chicago 
Evening  Post."  He  is  the  author  of  "First  Love,"  1911; 
"Challenge,"  1914;  "And  Other  Poets:  A  Book  of  Parodies," 
1916;  "These  Times,"  1917;  and  " The  Poems  of  Heinrich 
Heine,  Selected  and  Translated,"  1917. 

UPSON,  ARTHUR.  Born  at  Camden,  New  York,  in  1877. 
Educated  at  Camden  Academy  and  the  University  of  Min- 
nesota. He  is  the  author  of  "Westwind  Songs,"  1902; 
"Octaves  in  an  Oxford  Garden,"  1902;  "The  City:  A  Poem 
Drama,"  1905;  "The  Tides  of  Spring,  and  Other  Poems," 
1907.  Mr.  Upson  died  August  14,  1908.  His  death  was  an 
inestimable  loss  to  American  literature,  as  he  was  a  poet  of 
rare  gifts  which  were  maturing  with  each  expression. 

VIERECK,  GEORGE  SYLVESTER.  Born  in  Munich,  Germany, 
December  31,  1884.  Came  to  America  at  the  age  of  eleven 
years.  Graduated  from  the  College  of  New  York  City  in 
1906.  He  was  for  several  years  upon  the  staff  of  "Current 
Opinion"  and  is  the  editor  of  "The  International"  and  of 
"Viereck's  American  Weekly,"  formerly  "The  Fatherland." 
Mr.  Viereck's  three  volumes  of  verse  are:  "Nineveh,  and 
Other  Poems,"  1907;  "The  Candle  and  the  Flame,"  1911; 
"Songs  of  Armageddon,"  1916. 

WELSH,  ROBERT  GILBERT.  Dramatic  critic  of  the  "Even- 
ing Telegram"  of  New  York  City.  He  has  not  yet  published 
a  collection  of  poetry,  but  has  appeared  in  the  leading  maga- 
zines. 

WHEELER,  EDWARD  J.  Born  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  March  11, 
1859.  Graduated  from  Wesleyan  University  in  Ohio  in  1879. 
His  university  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Litt.D.  in 
1 905 .  Mr.  Wheeler  is  one  of  the  leading  j ournalists  of  America, 
having  been  editor  of  the  "Literary  Digest"  from  1895  to 
1905  and  of  "Current  Literature,"  now  "Current  Opinion," 
since  that  date.  He  is  also  literary  editor  of  Funk  and  Wag- 
rialls  Company,  Publishers.  Mr.  Wheeler  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  Poetry  Society  of  America  in  1909  and  has 
been  president  of  the  organization  since  that  date. 

WHEELOCK,  JOHN  HALL.  Born  at  Far  Rockaway,  New 
York,  in  1886.  He  took  the  degree  of  A.B.  from  Harvard  Uni- 
versity in  1908,  and  spent  the  next  two  years  in  Germany, 
studying  during  1909  at  Gottingen  and  during  1910  at  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  219 


University  of  Berlin.  He  is  connected  with  the  publishing 
house  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Mr.  Wheelock's  volumes  of 
poetry  are:  "The  Human  Fantasy,"  1911;  "The  Beloved 
Adventure,"  1912;  and  "Love  and  Liberation,"  1913. 

WILKINSON,  FLORENCE  (MRS.  WILFRID  MUIR  EVANS). 
Born  at  Tarrytown,  New  York.  Miss  Wilkinson  studied  at 
Chicago  University  and  other  American  colleges  and  after- 
wards at  the  Sorbonne  and  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale  of 
Paris.  She  is  the  author  of  several  novels,  of  which  the  best 
known  are:  "The  Lady  of  the  Flag  Flowers,"  "The  Strength 
of  the  Hills,"  and  "The  Silent  Door";  and  also  of  one  or 
two  volumes  of  plays;  but  her  most  representative  work  is 
found  in  her  poetry,  of  which  she  has  written  two  volumes: 
"The  Far  Country,"  1906,  and  "The  Ride  Home,"  1913. 

WOODBERRY,  GEORGE  EDWARD.  Born  at  Beverly,  Mas- 
sachusetts, May  12,  1855.  Graduated  with  the  degree  of 
A.B.  from  Harvard  University  in  1877.  The  degree  of  Litt.D. 
was  conferred  on  him  by  Amherst  College  in  1905,  and  by 
Harvard  University  in  1911,  and  the  degree  of  LL.D.  by 
Western  Reserve  University  in  1907.  He  was  Professor  of 
English  at  the  University  of  Nebraska,  1877-78;  also  1880- 
82,  and  was  Professor  of  Comparative  Literature  at  Colum- 
bia University  1891-1904.  Professor  Woodberry  is  one  of  the 
ablest  critics  and  biographers  in  American  literature  as  well 
as  one  of  the  finest  poets.  Among  his  best-known  volumes  of 
criticism  are:  "Studies  in  Letters  and  Life,"  "The  Heart  of 
Man,"  "Makers  of  Literature,"  "The  Torch,"  "The  Appre- 
ciation of  Literature,"  and  "The  Inspiration  of  Poetry."  In 
biography  he  has  done  admirable  studies  of  Poe,  Hawthorne, 
Shelley,  Swinburne,  Emerson,  etc.;  and  in  poetry  he  has  pub- 
lished many  volumes,  of  which  the  most  representative  are: 
"The  North  Shore  Watch,"  1890;  "Wild  Eden,"  1900; 
"Poems,"  1903;  "The  Kingdom  of  All  Souls,"  1912;  "The 
Flight,"  1914;  and  "Ideal  Passion,"  1917. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

BARKER,  ELSA 77,119 

BRAITHWAITE,  WILLIAM  STANLEY 84 

BRANCH,  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD 38,  70,  122 

BROWN,  ALICE 25,  82,  200 

BURTON,  RICHARD       84,  111,  135 

BYNNER,  WITTER 126,  151,  157 

CARMAN,  BLISS 3,  25,  32,  192 

GATHER,  WILLA  SIBERT 75 

CAWEIN,  MADISON       27,  87,  194 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE 122,  193 

COATES,  FLORENCE  EARLE        37,  121,  128 

COLTON,  ARTHUR 66,  136 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY 60,  116 

DALY,  THOMAS  AUGUSTINE       31,  108 

DARGAN,  OLIVE  TILFORD 73 

DASKAM,  JOSEPHINE  DODGE 81 

DAVIS,  FANNIE  STEARNS 28,  96 

FIRKINS,  CHESTER 7 

FRENCH,  NORA  MAY 170 

GARRISON,  THEODOSIA 58,  133 

GREENE,  SARAH  PRATT  McLEAN 134 

GUINEY,  LOUISE  IMOGEN 15,  72,  80,  199 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


HAGEDORN,  HERMANN 36,  172 

HELBURN,  THERESA 38 

HOVEY,  RICHARD 11,  128,  159,  183 

JOHNS,  ORRICK 48 

JONES,  THOMAS  S.,  Jr 26,  51,  89 

KILMER,  JOYCE        69,  151 

KNOWLES,  FREDERIC  LAWRENCE       57,  182 

LEDOUX,  Louis  V 100 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD 26,  33,  98,  173 

LINDSAY,  NICHOLAS  VACHEL 97,  113,  141 

LODGE,  GEORGE  CABOT 118,  15ft 

LOWELL,  AMY 83 

MACKAYE,  PERCY 8,  161 

MARKHAM,  EDWIN       116,  137,  173,  185 

MIFFLIN,  LLOYD 97,  168 

MILLAY,  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT 88 

MOODY,  WILLIAM  VAUGHN       4,  17,  41 

NEIHARDT,  JOHN  G 143,  155 

NORTON,  GRACE  FALLOW 78 

O'HARA,  JOHN  MYERS 63,  125 

O  SHEEL,  SHAEMAS 14,  112 

PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON 52,  86,  127 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH       ....  36,  48,  73,  169 
RICE,  CALE  YOUNG 66,  103,  175 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB 169,  201 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON      ....      139,  160,  182 

ROBERTS,  CHARLES  G.  D 74,  196 

ROGERS,  ROBERT  CAMERON 129 

ROSENFELD,  MORRIS 198 

SANTAYANA,  GEORGE 153,  172,  177 

SCHAUFFLER,  ROBERT  HAVEN       105 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON 49,  99,  178 

SHERMAN,  FRANK  DEMPSTER 30,  63,  68 

STICKNEY,  TRUMBULL 58,  67,  129 

STERLING,  GEORGE      . 8,  103,  170 

SWEENEY,  MILDRED  McNEAL       9,  154 

TEASDALE,  SARA 64,  72,  82 

THOMAS,  EDITH  M 174,  193,  198 

TORRENCE,   RlDGELY     . 62,  186 

TOWNE,  CHARLES  HANSON       74,  179 

UNTERMEYER,  Louis 16,  56 

UPSON,  ARTHUR 12,  32,  153,  181 

VIERECK,  GEORGE  SYLVESTER       59,  68,  131 

WELSH,  ROBERT  GILBERT 167 

WHEELER,  EDWARD  J 175 

WHEELOCK,  JOHN  HALL       35,  13C 

WILKINSON,  FLORENCE 50,  110,  IK 

WOODBERRY,    GEORGE   EDWAED  .      .      .      .     11,  51,  157 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  caravan  from  China  comes 98 

A  flying  word  from  here  and  there 139 

A  man  said  unto  his  Angel 15 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town        4 

A  rhyme  of  good  Death's  inn 169 

Above  the  shouting  of  the  gale       49 

Across  the  fields  of  yesterday 89 

All  I  could  see  from  where  I  stood 89 

Aloof  upon  the  day's  immeasured  dome 8 

Apple-green  west  and  an  orange  bar        193 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon 99 

As  in  the  midst  of  battle  there  is  room 153 

At  the  gate  of  the  West  I  stand 105 

Be  still.  The  Hanging  Gardens  were  a  dream       ...  58 

Beauty  calls  and  gives  no  warning 62 

Before  the  solemn  bronze  Saint  Gaudens  made     ...  17 
Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries,  he  leans      .     .     .     .116 

Breathe  me  the  ancient  words  when  I  shall  find   ...  74 

By  seven  vineyards  on  one  hill       126 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night 159 

Da  spreeng  ees  com',  but  oh,  da  joy 31 

De  Massa  ob  de  sheepfol' 134 

England,  I  stand  on  thy  imperial  ground 11 

Fluid  the  world  flowed  under  us:  the  hills 8 

For  a  name  unknown 32 

For  me  the  jasmine  buds  unfold 87 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Four  winds  blowing  through  the  sky       82 

From  their  folded  mates  they  wander  far 135 

God,  I  return  to  you  on  April  days .    .  16 

Golden  pulse  grew  on  the  shore 63 

Grandmither,  think  not  I  forget,  when  I  come  back  to 

town       75 

Grey  rocks  and  greyer  sea 74 

Grow,  grow,  thou  little  tree       32 

He  had  been  singing  —  but  I  had  not  heard  his  voice    .  179 
He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed,  knoweth  no  more  of 

doubting 14 

Heart  free,  hand  free 84 

Helen's  lips  are  drifting  dust 57 

Her  talk  was  all  of  woodland  things 33 

Here  is  the  place  where  Loveliness  keeps  house    ...    27 

Hill  people  turn  to  their  hills 50 

Himself  is  least  afraid       154 

How  often  in  the  summer-tide ,    .    .    84 

I  am  fevered  with  th«i  sunset 11 

I  belt  the  morn  with  ribboned  mist 194 

I  have  praised  many  loved  ones  in  my  song     ....     38 

I  know  it  must  be  winter  (though  I  sleep) 198 

I  lift  mine  eyes  against  the  sky      „ 198 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride 185 

I  so  loved  once,  when  Death  came  by,  I  hid    ....  169 
I  try  to  knead  and  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the  while      .    80 

I,  who  have  lost  the  stars,  the  sod, 7 

I  would  unto  my  fair  restore 72 

I  would  I  might  forget  that  I  am  I 177 

If  love  were  but  a  little  thing 128 

If  my  daik  grandam  had  but  known 79 

Impregnable  I  held  myself,  secure 121 

In  an  old  book  at  even  as  I  read 153 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

In  the  pain,  in  the  loneliness  of  love 130 

In  silence,  solitude  and  stern  surmise 156 

In  the  middle  of  August  when  the  southwest  wind    .     .  186 
Its  friendship  and  its  carelessness        87 

Let  me  no  more  a  mendicant 136 

Let  not  our  town  be  large  —  remembering 141 

Life  burns  us  up  like  fire        35 

Life  said:  "My  house  is  thine  with  all  its  store"       .     .170 

Listen  to  the  tawny  thief SO 

Live  blindly  and  upon  the  hour.  The  Lord      ....    67 

Lord  of  my  heart's  elation 8 

Love  came  back  at  fall  o'  dew 73 

May  is  building  her  house.  With  apple  blooms    ...  £6 

Memphis  and  Karnak,  Luxor,  Thebes,  the  Nile    .     .     .  100 

*Mid  glad  green  miles  of  tillage 143 

Miniver  Cheevy,  child  of  scorn 182 

My  heart  is  like  a  city  of  the  gay        59 

My  heart  it  was  a  cup  of  gold         81 

My  heart  was  winter-bound,  until 68 

My  little  soul  I  never  saw 79 

My  love  for  thee  doth  take  me  unaware 128 

My  mother's  hands  are  cool  and  fair 38 

My  mother  has  the  prettiest  tricks 40 

My  Soul  goes  clad  in  gorgeous  things 96 

My  true  love  from  her  pillow  rose 172 

Naked  and  brave  thou  goest 114 

Night  is  the  true  democracy.  When  day 175 

Nightingales  warble  about  it 51 

Now  along  the  solemn  heights 196 

Now  since  mine  even  has  come  at  last 60 

O  brown  brook,  0  blithe  brook,  what  will  you  say  to  me    28 
O  hearken,  all  ye  little  weeds 25 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


O  little  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring 26 

O  love  that  is  not  Love,  but  dear,  so  dear 73 

O  white  Priest  of  Eternity,  around 103 

Of  old  it  went  forth  to  Euchenor,  pronounced  of  his  sire     12 

Oh,  grieve  not,  Ladies,  if  at  night 70 

Only  of  thee  and  me  the  night  wind  sings 56 

Others  endure  man's  rule,  he  therefore  deems       .     .     .121 

Out  of  the  conquered  Past 181 

Out  of  the  purple  drifts 63 

Perhaps  they  laughed  at  Dante  in  his  youth    ....  151 

Sargon  is  dust,  Semiramis  a  clod 103 

Shall  I  say  that  what  heaven  gave 157 

She  's  somewhere  in  the  sunlight  strong 173 

Sleep  softly  .  .  .  eagle  forgotten  .  .  .  under  the  stone      .  113 
So  hath  he  fallen,  the  Endymion  of  the  air       ....       9 

Song  is  so  old 36 

Speak:  said  my  soul,  be  stern  and  adequate     .     .     .    .118 

Squire  Adam  had  two  wives,  they  say 69 

Such  special  sweetness  was  about        36 

Sweet  is  the  highroad  when  the  skylarks  call    ....     68 
Sweet  is  the  time  for  joyous  folk 200 

That  day  her  eyes  were  deep  as  night 129 

The  angels  in  high  places 167 

The  harps  hung  up  in  Babylon 66 

The  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart 129 

The  islands  called  me  far  away 127 

The  little  Road  says,  Go 86 

The  low- voiced  girls  that  go 173 

The  old  eternal  spring  once  more 25 

The  Ox  he  openeth  wide  the  Doore    .    .    .     .    .    .    .  19£ 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  lonesome  road 133 

The  twilight's  inner  flame  grows  blue  and  deep     ...     64 
The  waves  about  lona  dirge .  178 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  weasel  thieves  in  silver  suit 193 

Then,  lady,  at  last  thou  art  sick  of  my  sighing     ...    82 
Then  that  dread  angel  near  the  awful  throne  ....    97 

There  is  a  quest  that  calls  me 175 

There  is  no  escape  by  the  river 183 

Fhere  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to  my 

blood 192 

There  moved  a  Presence  always  by  his  side      ....  156 

These  are  the  best  of  him 182 

They  went  forth  to  battle  but  they  always  fell     .     .     .112 

This,  then,  is  she 41 

Thou  art  the  rock  of  Empire,  set  mid-seas        ....     12 

Threading  a  darksome  passage  all  alone 174 

Thy  hands  are  like  cool  herbs  that  bring 131 

To-day  ees  com'  from  Eetaly 108 

To-day  I  saw  the  shop-girl  go 122 

To  you  he  gave  his  laughter  and  his  jest 58 

Upon  a  cloud  among  the  stars  we  stood 168 

Uriel,  you  that  in  the  ageless  sun        161 

Voice,  with  what  emulous  fire  thou  singest  free  hearts  of 
old  fashion 116 

We  are  the  toilers  from  whom  God  barred Ill 

We  are  they  that  go,  that  go 110 

We  go  no  more  to  Calverly's 160 

We  needs  must  be  divided  in  the  tomb 172 

What  delightful  hosts  are  they 201 

What  shape  so  furtive  steals  along  the  dim      ....  125 
When  I  am  dead  and  over  me  bright  April       ....     72 

When  I  am  dead  and  sister  to  the  dust 77 

When  I  am  tired  of  earnest  men 151 

When  1  consider  life  and  its  few  years 48 

When  I  have  finished  with  this  episode        155 

When  the  Norn  Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour         .  137 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

When  the  wind  is  low  and  the  sea  is  soft 56 

Where  are  the  friends  that  I  knew  in  my  Maying      .     .  157 

Whither,  with  blue  and  pleading  eyes 170 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 122 

Who  shall  declare  the  joy  of  the  running 83 

Why  do  you  seek  the  sun 97 

Why  sing  the  legends  of  the  Holy  Grail 119 

Wind-washed  and  free,  full-swept  by  rain  and  wave      .  51 

With  cassock  black,  baret  and  book 78 

Would  I  were  on  the  sea-lands       48 

Yes,  nightingale,  through  all  the  summer-time     .    .    c  52 


_ 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


JIM  2 


DEC  2  4  T928 
MAR      11929 


MAY  1  0  1934 

OWN  It  '42 

JUN3Q  '42 


1964 


UNIVERSITY  FARM  LIBRARY^ 

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